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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952232">Cordial Enemies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/senlinyu/pseuds/senlinyu'>senlinyu</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stargazing121/pseuds/Stargazing121'>Stargazing121</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Co-Written, Co-workers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Inspired by Bridgerton (TV), Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Partially inspired by real events, Press and Tabloids, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Unresolved Sexual Tension, inappropriate removal of winter gloves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:42:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>36,689</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952232</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/senlinyu/pseuds/senlinyu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stargazing121/pseuds/Stargazing121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are wedding bells on the horizon. </p>
<p>Resolutely single Hermione Granger finds herself under the relentless spotlight of the gossip magazines when the wedding of her ex, Ron, draws near. In a fit of desperation, she forges an alliance with her career antagonist, the serially single but tabloid eligible Draco Malfoy. Their plan is simple; spend two weeks pretending to be madly in love and then go their separate ways once the wedding’s over. </p>
<p>It should be easy. They are, after all, cordial enemies.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Dramione's💜, Good Potterhead Shit, Promising Dramione WIPs, The High Ground, dramione wips i need to read</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Actually, Actually</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Beta work by Jamethiel and Pidanka.<br/>Cover art by <a href="https://ectoheart.tumblr.com">ectoheart.</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p>According to Kennilworthy Whisp’s <em> Quidditch Through the Ages</em>, the Golden Snidget is a small magical bird. Distinctive for its – shocking, given the name –  golden colour, yet, however, the only obviously magical thing about this bird was its rather sorry history. </p><p>Back in the thirteenth century, some bright spark called Barberus Bragge had the idea of spicing up the dull, old game called Quidditch – which only had a measly three balls at the time – by releasing a Golden Snidget into the stadium, with a prize of a hundred and fifty galleons for its capture. Of course, Barberus Bagge never stipulated that it had to be alive. </p><p>The Golden Snidget led to the creation of the Golden Snitch, the most famous and most exciting of all the balls in the beautiful game. Unfortunately, it was quite a few centuries before the Golden Snitch became popular enough to wholly replace the Golden Snidget as the ball of prey.   </p><p>As a vital worker in The Department of Magical Games and Sports, Draco Malfoy knew the tragic story of The Golden Snidget, and its role in the barbarous history of the sport which he humbly represented. However, maybe if the birds hadn’t been so golden, so ball-shaped, and so good for the chase, then maybe the little buggers wouldn’t be on the verge of extinction. </p><p>Then again, was it really the birds' fault that they were that way? Was it? It was only evolution, being born into the right family even, which had caused them to become the most sought-out catch on the field. </p><p>“Has she gone?” Draco asked Blaise out of the corner of his mouth. His face was pressed so close to the central pages of <em> Witch Weekly </em> magazine that he was basically kissing it. The line for the cafeteria was as long as ever, and the snail-pace of the queue was making him an easy target. </p><p>He felt like a sitting duck; a goose for fattening; a Golden Snidget set loose in a stadium.  </p><p>“You really need to work out a better strategy for avoiding all these unwelcome advances. I can’t be here to protect you at all times.” </p><p>“I need a chaperone.” Draco tore his eyes away from the magazine and sought Blaise’s, beseechingly. “Don’t you dare leave me.”</p><p>Blaise’s only reply was to raise an eyebrow.  </p><p>“I can’t go anywhere without being accosted.”</p><p>“Oh deary me,” Blaise said, raising the other eyebrow. “Draco Malfoy being accosted by women. My heart bleeds for you.”</p><p>“These women don’t want me; they want my money.”</p><p>“I think you mean your inheritance.” Blaise plucked the publication out of Draco’s resisting fingers. “I see you made the front page. <em> Again. </em>” Blaise sounded as long-suffering as Draco felt. </p><p>Draco’s own face was reflected back at him; his smile glassy and his hair extra shiny under the glossy front. The photo winked at him, and he suddenly understood just why Hermione Granger had punched him all those years ago.  </p><p>“I just want to know why I didn’t turn up on this list.” Blaise flicked through the magazine to the offending article, licking his fingers professionally as he turned each page. “Am I not eligible enough?”</p><p>The article once again announced, just for any unmarried women who might have missed it the first time, that he, Draco Malfoy, was the most eligible bachelor in the entire British Isles, including Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales. In fact, this newer article was now proclaiming that they had made an original error and Draco was in fact the most sought-after single wizard in the whole of Europe. Like the Golden Snidget, he was almost the last of his kind: young, wealthy and single.  </p><p>“Maybe you should write to the editor and complain,” Draco said, looking around furtively. </p><p>The Ministry of Magic’s cafeteria was crowded at the best of times but at one o’clock it was packed; this had been the case ever since some bright spark had petitioned the Minister to insist that all employees should have lunch in the cafeteria rather than working lunches, which could be extended into the late afternoon and then costed as expenses. Or so he’d heard.  </p><p>Apparently, mingling all the separate bureaucratic floors together would encourage ‘inter-department cohesion’ and ‘team-building’. Instead, the only thing which the Ministry employees had bonded over was to bump off the idiot that recommended this idea to the Minister in the first place. </p><p>But it was not just the company or the suspect food which had caused Draco to dread the daily ritual of lunchtime: it was the women. </p><p>“I didn’t know you owned a castle in Scotland,” Blaise said in a manner that Draco considered too casual given that they were mulling over the end of his life as he knew it. Blaise turned the page. “Oh look, you have a medieval armoury.” </p><p>“I implore you to stop talking.” </p><p>“And a moat.”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“Do you think there’s a dungeon?”</p><p>“<em>Please.</em>”</p><p>“Fine,” Blaise said and snapped the magazine shut. “You know if you’d actually dated a nice girl and settled down, then you wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”</p><p>“I do date –”</p><p>“I said ‘nice’ girl. Not these vicious puffer-fish that you seem to insist on dating.” </p><p>Some poor soul finished the agonising process of deciding which meal – something which could have been chicken or possibly beef and an incinerated aubergine and tomato pile – would affect their digestional tract the least and left the line, moving the queue up by a couple of steps.</p><p>Blaise looked at something – or someone – behind Draco. His expression did not look promising, and there was something between a grimace and a smile occurring around his mouth. Draco knew this expression. It was the same one Blaise used whenever he had a conversation with their boss, Hortense Fletcher, about his owl post. It still astounded Draco that Blaise did enough work to actually incur excessive owl post costs. </p><p>“Hello,” Blaise said, waving the magazine at the unknown entity behind Draco.  </p><p>Draco peered around in almost comic slow motion. </p><p><em> Phew. </em> Now out of all the witches in the world, it was a relief this one was without a doubt the only one who certainly did not want to marry him.  </p><p>“Good afternoon, Miss Granger,” Draco said and smiled at her with the same smile that he did across the table every Monday morning at the inter-department staff meeting. The one which seemed to quietly incense her. </p><p>She pursed her lips for a moment before flashing a shorter and more insincere smile of her own. “Malfoy. Blaise.”</p><p>“How delightful to see you,” Draco said, layering his voice with overdone earnestness. “Blaise and I were just rabidly discussing the upcoming wedding. Of course, you’ll be attending?” He let the question hover in the air as being held there by a levitating charm. </p><p>“Of course,” Granger said as if attending an ex’s wedding was as common as breathing.</p><p> “I know I am almost about to explode with the anticipation of seeing one of my oldest friends married to such an upstanding citizen such as Mr R. Weasley.”</p><p>“Try not to explode here, mate,” Blaise said, nudging Draco in the side of the ribs. </p><p>The corner of Granger’s mouth quirked briefly. “But imagine the joy if he did? Every witch in Britain would finally have a piece of him.”</p><p>Blaise – from henceforth known as The Betrayer – laughed. “You know, I think this will be one of the first events in what –” he turned to Draco as if seeking confirmation – “ten years that you’ve not had a date for.”</p><p>“I could have a date if I wanted one,” Draco said and resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at Blaise.</p><p>“Does it still count as you that they’re dating when you’ve effectively been reduced to a Gringotts sign and a line of numbers?” Granger almost sounded like she was making a real attempt at conversation and not trying to dig him a premature grave.</p><p>Blai– The Betrayer looked like he was about to reach over and high-five Granger, he was sniggering so much. </p><p>Draco, because he was obviously the only mature adult in the vicinity, stopped the retort which would have rolled off his tongue easier than a lie. “I’ve decided of my own volition to be single.” </p><p>“This is true,” Blaise said, suddenly solemn. “Draco is in recovery. This is the longest he’s ever been without a date.”</p><p>“I can’t imagine the degree of suffering this is causing you,” Granger said, looking unexpectedly sincere, which was entirely unlike her. Draco was momentarily confused until he realised that her sympathies were being directed at Blaise.</p><p>“I’m his sponsor.” Blaise held up his hand, palm up. “I am Blaise Zabini and I have been single for two years.”</p><p>Draco did not regard himself as a small person. He wasn’t small in physique. He wasn’t small in his intellect. And he definitely wasn’t small in any other department. He regarded himself as well above average, if not quite big. But even above-average-quite-big people have their limits. </p><p>“Perhaps,” he said, sliding himself between Blaise and Granger, giving her his full and undivided attention, “you could give me some tips.”</p><p>  Granger’s eyes flashed, and her bosom swelled under her sensible blouse. Draco regretted giving her quite so much of his undivided attention as a woman’s bosom swelling would distract many-a-man, but particularly a man who hadn't had date in nearly two weeks. </p><p>She seemed to be appraising him too. She looked him up and down twice before raising an eyebrow. “I find that happy singleness is very much based in character, and I’m not sure whether you actually have one.” She looked away, briefly making a face, made a selection from the menu for the witch at the counter and after accepting the plate she was handed, started turning away.</p><p>Draco found himself sidling closer to her in an attempt to cut Blaise’s treacherous sarcasm out of the conversation. “Did you get that out of a self-help book?” </p><p>She glanced up at him. “Why? Would you like to borrow it, Malfoy?”</p><p>Draco opened his mouth. He was going to say something cutting and direct which would leave Granger high and dry, as was his way when dealing with confrontations which were beneath him, but once again The Betrayer interrupted him.   </p><p>“Don’t be silly. Draco can’t read,” Blaise said. Tucking the issue of Witch Weekly under his arm, he grabbed two plates of what was probably chicken and mushrooms on closer inspection, and pushed his shoulder into Draco’s. “We should be going before the effort of Draco trying to be clever causes him serious injury.”</p><p>Blaise jockeyed him like a horse at the Grand National towards the table on the far side of the cafeteria. Draco was so provoked that he barely even noticed the heads that turned in his direction or the whispers that followed him.</p><p> He swung round, narrowing his eyes, not sure whether he expected to find Granger still looking at him in the way that most women especially lately tended to or to have already forgotten about him entirely once he was no longer interfering with the rapid check-off of her excessively addended daily routine. Hermione Granger waved her little finger at him and walked away.  </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="letter">
  <p>
    
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> Do we hear wedding bells on the horizon? As I am sure all of you are aware, we are bludgering towards the highly anticipated nuptials of one Miss Pansy Parkinson and Mr Ronald Weasley, which is taking place on Valentine’s Day. Of course, Miss Parkinson would choose the most romantic day of the year to host her wedding, which does make this author ask the question of if Miss Parkinson is hoping that some of this romantic aura will rub off on her groom, Chudley Cannons player, Ronald Weasley.   </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> Or perhaps this author is being too harsh: he is a Keeper after all.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> Mr Weasley’s most notable ex-girlfriend is none other than Miss (please note the Miss, dear readers) Hermione Granger, who is not a witch known for her romantic sensibilities. So perhaps, we can forgive Mr Weasley’s last year Valentine’s Day debacle where he was seen rushing around Diagon Alley for a florist. As this author can tell you, with the strictest confidence, Miss Parkinson does not accept anything under 4.8 carats, something which Mr Weasley found out later that evening when he was photographed – exclusively by this publication – wearing his spaghetti bolognese rather than eating it.   </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> Perhaps, Ronald’s dating past is more to blame than we realised. The tenaciously driven Miss Granger – or the Ministry of Magic’s top employee four years in a row – is famously single. An honour only held by one other person in London’s Wizarding social life, although perhaps ‘infamously’ would be a better description for him.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> Miss Granger has not been seen with a man in over six years, which is long enough to declare someone legally dead. This author has to wonder what exactly are the perks of being named the Ministry's Top Employee, because apparently a social life is not one of them.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>— January, 2009, <b>The Social Snitcher</b> , in <b>Witch Weekly</b></p>
</div><hr/><p>“Hermione Granger.”</p><p>Hermione winced before donning a forceful smile and lifting her head to find Cormac McLaggen standing across the table from her, plate in hand, and seemingly surprised at seeing her in the Ministry.  </p><p>She’d been hoping to eat her meal quickly so she could flee the Ministry’s latest mandatory inter-departmental lunch without having to actually talk to anyone.</p><p>“Cormac,” she tried to seem vaguely pleased by the sight of him. “What can I do for you?”</p><p>He grinned at her, wide, with too many teeth. They hadn’t crossed paths much over the years since his Department within the Ministry blessedly had very little overlap with Magical Creatures. Pulling out a chair, he seated himself across from her in that sprawling-limbed way that men liked, looking her up and down as if she were up for auction, eyes stopping on her chest. </p><p>Hermione gripped her fork tighter. </p><p>“I ran into Molly Weasley yesterday, at Gringotts. She mentioned you didn’t have a date for Ron’s wedding.”</p><p>Hermione’s stomach shrivelled and the tines of her fork tapped against her plate. Her smile threatened to waver, and she ground her teeth together, just a little, in order to hold it.  “Did she?”</p><p>Now that her youngest son was preparing to fly the nest, Molly was in need of a hobby and for some unfathomable reason had decided that it would be matchmaking. Hermione had been involuntarily selected as the first to benefit from her help.  </p><p>Ever since <em> Witch Weekly’s </em> gossip column had seen fit to remind the entire world of exactly how long it had been since Hermione had last dated anyone, her friends had collectively decided that she was deeply unhappy and wanting for a partner. Molly was determined to find “someone” for Hermione. Hermione simply couldn’t attend Ron’s wedding alone. The suggested someones ranged from the preposterous to the downright insulting. Cormac McLaggen, whose eyes still hadn’t succeeded in tearing themselves away from Hermione’s chest, was both.  </p><p>“Yeah.” Cormac leaned back in his seat, still talking to her breasts, “She remembered how we’d gone out back in Hogwarts and mentioned you were looking for someone. Said you work too hard and forget to take care of yourself.”</p><p>Hermione’s cheeks were beginning to hurt from the forced smile she was wearing. “Did she?”</p><p>Cormac finally glanced up at her face again, as if only just remembering that she had one. He grinned again as if he expected her to fling herself into his arms, overwhelmed with gratitude. “Says you forget you’re not getting younger.”</p><p>Hermione didn’t think it was possible to forget that she wasn’t getting younger. A year-long stint in the Department of Mysteries meant that she possessed an extensive and intimate understanding of the continued progression of existence, and as if that achievement wasn’t enough, Molly managed to mention Hermione's age every single time they saw each other. </p><p>Her smile cooled into a closed-lip grimace. “Yes. I am quite busy and not very fun. It was very thoughtful of Molly to think of me, and for you to stop by, but I’m not worried about Ron’s wedding. I’ll be there as his friend; I’m not concerned with anything else. ”</p><p>Cormac laughed, loud enough to make several people nearby turn to look at them. “Not worried about a date even at a Valentine’s wedding? You really are as hopeless as The Social Snitcher says.” </p><p>Hermione’s jaw tensed. </p><p>He leaned forwards, eyes eager. “Don’t worry, Molly knew you’d be like this. After we talked, she said she’d seat us together, old friends, you know? We had a good time back at Hogwarts; I still think about it sometimes.”</p><p>He raised his eyebrows and ran his thumb across his lower lip, flicking his tongue against the tip as he stared at her. </p><p>Hermione’s stomach grew cold, twisting as if there was a knot inside it. “Did she?” she asked for the third time.</p><p>Cormac nodded and began reciting his recent promotion in the Magical Cooperation Department. It would seem that the entire branch of the Ministry would be lost if not for Cormac’s memos. Additionally, he was Keeper for the Ministry’s intramural Quidditch league and he’d carried the entirety of his team the week before. Sixteen saves. It had been raining and snowing. Simultaneously. There had been a lightning storm.</p><p>Hermione tuned out the Quidditch monologuing in a way that had become both habitual and effortless over the course of nineteen years and glanced down at her ‘lunch.’</p><p>She would sooner stab herself with a fork than be forced to interact with Cormac as her ‘pseudo-date’ at Ron’s wedding. </p><p>“I actually do have a date.” The lie slipped out before she even had time to think it through. </p><p>Cormac paused in the middle of his diatribe about Quidditch points distribution. “You have a date?”</p><p>“Y-yes.” She tried to sound convincing, but she would have preferred feigning a passion for toothaches.</p><p>Oh god, now she was going to find a date. Maybe she could pay her secretary Brian to tag along, he’d at least occupy a chair and force Molly to put Cormac somewhere else. </p><p>No. </p><p>That could be unethical. Surely there was someone -</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Who?” she echoed Cormac’s question weakly.</p><p>Who indeed? Her eyes swept across the room, as she tried to wrack her mind and think of someone even remotely plausible. As her eyes darted from face to face, they landed on Malfoy.</p><p>Ever since Witch Weekly released their article detailing Britain’s most eligible bachelors with Malfoy’s blond, pointy face on the cover, he’d barely been able to walk the halls without being swarmed by witches. It had been funny for the first several days, but the novelty had worn off after a week and now it was almost absurd to keep witnessing.</p><p>The Malfoy family had fallen significantly from favour since the war, but the Death Eater stigma was apparently something people were willing to swallow as long as it came encrusted with diamonds and real estate. </p><p>She watched as Malfoy peeled a witch’s hand off his arm with his thumb and index finger as if he thought she might be coated in something contagiously nuptial.</p><p>“Oh Malfoy,” she muttered under her breath as she watched him sit glowering until the witch finally retreated from where he was once again seated with Zabini, who had seemingly been designated as a bodyguard throughout the ordeal.</p><p>“Malfoy?” the utter disbelief in Cormac’s voice was enough to bring her rapidly back to earth. “Malfoy is your date?” </p><p>Hermione stared blankly at Cormac for several seconds before it dawned on her how he’d taken her words. The condescending disbelief in Cormac’s face was enough to make her want to fling her remaining food in his face. She started to open her mouth to clarify that Malfoy was most certainly not her date, not in this life, nor the next, nor any parallel universes that may or may not exist. Before she could speak, Cormac sat back, eyes dropping to her breasts. Again. </p><p>And he laughed.</p><p>“A little ambitious even for you, Hermione,” he said with a smug grin. </p><p>Indignation sparked to life in her chest, her mouth snapping closed. </p><p>“Malfoy’s dating you?” He laughed loudly again, making people nearby glance over at them. </p><p>The sheer incredulity radiating from Cormac was enough to fan Hermione’s kindling indignation into an inferno of determination. How dare Cormac try to imply that Hermione wasn’t good enough to date Draco Malfoy? If anything the scepticism should be reversed. She was the one who was much too good to date the likes of Draco Malfoy. </p><p>She flashed an insincere smile and stood, lunch forgotten. “They do say that the line between love and hate is very thin.”</p><p>She turned heel and walked away, mind racing. </p><p>Malfoy. She’d told Cormac McLaggen that Draco Malfoy was her date for Ron’s wedding.</p><p>Merlin, what had she gotten herself into?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Decent Proposal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="letter">
  <p>
  
</p>
  <p>
  <em>
    <span>Mr Draco Lucius Malfoy. This author does wonder if there is something in men naming their children after themselves. As you are all well aware from our earlier issue, Draco Malfoy has been named through an extensive screening process as the most eligible bachelor in not only London, not only Britain, but now the whole of Europe. That is correct; we have gone international. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  <p>
  <em>
    <span>Sadly, Draco Malfoy does seem disinclined to break his bachelor status. Or maybe that is a misinterpretation, for indeed until recently, Draco Malfoy was [known for] practically revelling in his unmarried state by parading a new woman on his excellently tailored arm each week. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  <p>
  <em>
    <span>This author cannot help but wonder what drives Mr Malfoy to have had such a varied amount of female companions. Did he tire of their conversation? Did he develop a rash if he spent too much time in one person’s company; although this author is only speculating on why Mr Malfoy would have rashes on his body. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  <p>
  <em>
    <span>However, in recent days, Mr Malfoy appears to have cast off his old habits and clasp to his bosom a most uncharacteristic case of celibacy. Could he have truly moved on from his age of revelry and embraced singleness or is there perhaps something more than meets the eye? We have inquired if Mr Malfoy would like to comment, but we have received no reply as of yet. We are anxiously holding our breath until he honours us with one. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  <p>
  <span>— February 2009, </span>
  <b>The Social Snitcher,</b>
  <span> in </span>
  <b>Witch Weekly </b></p>
</div><hr/>
<p>Draco kept his eyes securely on his plate. To any passers-by, it would seem that he was in raptures with the soggy brown stuff which adorned his plate like a Jackson Pollock painting. He thought he might have spied a potato amongst the mass of jellified gravy, but he wasn’t willing to bet one galleon of his Gringotts vault on it.</p>
<p>
  <span>One would think that if the Ministry were going to keep insisting on employee lunches, that they would at least provide edible food. Maybe this was all some grand plan to bring the employees together over the shared trial of unpalatable meals. Maybe he could spear-head a government coup against the catering department. Maybe that was the team-building exercise: the vicious murder of a government employee for putting the rest of the departments through this gastro-trial. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Draco prodded his food. It wobbled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighed and pushed the plate away in defeat. None of the passers-by seemed deterred by his apparent fixation with the Ministry’s less-than-to-be-desired lunch, given the way that they were gawking. They did not take his vacant, glassy-eyed downwards gaze as off-putting or indicative that he had a concussion or some mental deficiency. Instead, it seemed as if the employees of the Ministry of Magic took it as an invitation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had been interrupted no less than five times in the last thirty minutes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Malfoy,” Blaise said, trying and failing to speak out of the corner of his mouth: the man was not known for his subtleties. “Malfoy,” he said again as if Draco had forgotten his own forefather’s name, “there’s another one at twelve o’clock.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Draco shifted in his chair, sliding his eye to the side to catch sight of the woman across the room who was staring at him as if he was a handbag on the latest Louis Vuitton line and she just happened to have daddy’s Gringotts key. She waved her fingers; her nails were long and reminded him of the talons on that awful chicken that had attacked him in third year. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If this had been two weeks ago, he would have enjoyed the flirtatious eyes she was tossing at him from beneath her lashes. He might have gone over to her table, leaned casually on it and asked her to dinner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But this wasn’t two weeks ago. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Over the last two weeks, he’d been perpetually accosted, propositioned and solicited by women, but all women who wanted to marry him. Not him, however. His inheritance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could have warts, no teeth, and a limp, and these women would still want to shackle him with the old ball and chain. Actually, the limp might be preferable. It would be harder for him to run away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was regarded as nothing more than a matrimonial prize. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was it so terrible to want a wife who maybe liked him for more than just his money? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had feelings. Granted, they may not be deep feelings, deserving of a novel, but they were still there. He was perhaps a poem. Not a Shakespearean sonnet; but something by e.e.cummings. A little salacious, entirely nonsensical, and eccentric. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was as if this article had invited every woman to consider him up for grabs, often quite literally, as he’d been groped more in the past few weeks than he’d experienced in his almost thirty years of life. It was as if the author wanted him married as quickly as possible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe they were in cahoots with his mother. She’d been angling after grandchildren for the last half a decade; but try as he might, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>by Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span> he did try, he never seemed to be able to make things last. Maybe he was just doomed to be an eligible, yet confirmed bachelor for the rest of his life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Blaise said, rolling his eyes and scooting away from Malfoy as if marriage was catching, “I think we have another biter.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh Merlin. Not another one.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is she coming over?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blaise raised his hand in a tipping motion. “Probably. Unless undoing another button of her blouse is something she always does when she walks across a room.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Quick,” Draco said, slapping a manic smile onto his face which made him look as if he’d stuck a coat hanger in his mouth, “say something funny.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He realised that he was talking to Blaise, whose idea of humour tended to come entirely at Draco’s personal expense, but beggars couldn't be choosers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Blaise said, stupidly. The man really was a useless best friend.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Say something funny, make it look like we’re in the middle of a conversation, and then maybe she’ll go away.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blaise seemed to be distracted. He was blinking, opening and closing his mouth in an expression which reminded Draco of a codfish. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Draco needed a hero. Someone, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to save him. At this moment, he’d even be almost grateful if saintly Potter swooped in from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on a broomstick and carried him off to some far away destination. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He closed his eyes, his shoulders tensing as he prepared for the inevitable invasion of perfume and estrogen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Malfoy,” a feminine, and yet entirely unexpected voice said, “can I have a word?”</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>Hermione swallowed and tried not to appear as uncomfortable as she currently felt at finding herself as one of those women who were constantly swarming Malfoy.</p>
<p>
  <span> If she’d had more time to plan, she would have done up more buttons on her shirt, maybe added a few scarves and a winter coat. Just to make sure he didn’t think she was coming towards him because of –– all that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Never mind that she was indeed approaching him because of that. Technically. Really, it was only by technicality.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She inhaled. “Malfoy, can I have a word?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She watched his shoulders tense and then he twitched slightly as if he’d short-circuited and his eyes popped open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Granger?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His inflection spoke volumes. Blaise Zabini was sitting beside him, as usual, eyes glittering with curiosity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her mouth was extremely dry. Malfoy was staring, and Blaise was staring, and Cormac was staring. Damnit, it felt as if the entire room was staring. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She started to open her mouth, trying to think of some kind of small talk that wouldn’t seem completely desperate on her part.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this about that rumour going around that replacing the broomsticks with dragons in next year’s Quidditch World Cup?” he said, interrupting her. He raised a curious eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wha — ” She blinked. “N –– ” Her mouth snapped shut. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A private meeting about dragons. How perfect was that?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It already sounded strangely indecent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If she could get Malfoy alone, at least then when he laughed and said no, Cormac wouldn’t be two tables over, watching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because if it is, I swear I had nothing to do with it,” Malfoy said, once again interrupting her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bless Malfoy for assuming that Hermione would never approach him of her own volition in a context that was not strictly work-related. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that may be, but people are talking.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Truth be told, she hadn’t heard so much as a word about it. Dragons? At the Quidditch World Cup? Were people dense? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They played Quidditch, obviously they were. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, it would be an unmitigated disaster legally, not to mention the logistical implausibility of flying fourteen dragons around in a Quidditch pitch surrounded by thousands of wizards. The boundless idiocy that sprang from sports never ceased to amaze her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She drew herself up. “I think it would be best if Magical Sports and Creatures released a joint statement before it garners more attention. Would you be able to meet with me after lunch so we can draft something before the papers pick up the story?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Malfoy glanced at Blaise, looking like a man unexpectedly liberated, before standing up, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair he’d just vacated. “Unless Blaise requires my company further, we could discuss this now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione blinked. “Now?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d hoped to have a bit more time to develop a scheme that could convince Malfoy to feign a relationship with her for the next two weeks. She’d need to find a good angle to present him with, and an incentive. Malfoy had never done anything out of the goodness of his heart; in fact, he probably didn’t even have a heart, given the sheer quantity that he left littered in his wake. Even if he did, he was certainly in no danger of using it in a situation involving anything related to Hermione.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d envision herself drafting up a list of possible offers while she waited.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Actually,” Blaise said, winking up at her, “if you wouldn’t mind taking him off my hands. He’s disturbing my delicate work/life balance.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Malfoy made a noise which sounded like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>delicate</span>
  </em>
  <span> balance of humour and afrontary. “I would apologise, Zabini, if you had actually completed any work this year.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione suppressed a snort of her own at the notion that either of them actually accomplished anything that could be described as “work” in Magical Sports. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The indignation that Quidditch had a branch of the Ministry with funding equal to the entire Magical Creatures Department was one of the many things that Hermione was forced to suffer in silence. The mere idea that Draco Malfoy, who arrived at work late and left early, had a position within the Ministry equivalent to her own chafed every single time she was obliged to look at his irritating face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The old boys network of the Ministry: silly jobs for serious wages.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright. My office now then,” she said in a falsely cheerful voice as she turned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She noticed, with a small thrill of satisfaction, the expression of astonishment on Cormac’s face as Malfoy followed her out of the Ministry canteen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This may be the first time in memory that I have been pleased to be called into a meeting with you,” Malfoy said, matching her steps once he’d caught up with her, “you – and I don’t say this lightly – are the first woman I’ve been happy to be interrupted by in weeks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione shrivelled just a little on the inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What was he going to think once he found out why she’d asked to meet with him? This was going to ruin her entire superiority complex over him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that she cared about his opinion of her, but it was the principle of the thing. She liked the idea that even Draco Malfoy knew that she was not the type of person who would actually want anything to do with him for any reason that was not work-related. She would like him to continue believing such things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, hold that thought for the next two weeks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione said nothing, but her mind was churning. Once they were in her office, she surreptitiously locked the door and hurried over to her seat behind her desk while Malfoy seated himself in the armchair across from her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now about that pesky dragon rumour –” Malfoy started to say. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to talk about dragons being used at the World Cup,” Hermione said, cutting him off. “I need you to be my date at Ron and Pansy’s wedding on Valentine’s Day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At those words, something flashed across Malfoy’s face and his grey eyes darted over towards the closed and locked door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am not,” she said hurriedly and with great emphasis, “asking this because I like you in any way. Or have any kind of feelings or attraction towards you. In case it hasn’t been clear during the last five years we’ve worked together, I think you’re a terrible person.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Malfoy immediately relaxed, settling back into his seat. “Oddly enough, Granger, women liking me for my dazzling personality is not something I’ve been too concerned about lately. It’s almost a relief that you so freely admit to disliking me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. Well,” she sniffed, “rest assured, I’m not interested in any of that either. You and I are…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She paused trying to think of the appropriate term for the seething and begrudging tolerance that they’d cultivated over the years, ideally one that didn’t imply too heavily that she found him a useless idiot of a man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Theirs was not, and never had been, a voluntary ceasefire. Magical Sports had teams with mascots, and they had a habit of holding Quidditch matches in areas with protected magical wildlife. Who had to liaise with Magical Sports and ensure no Magical Creatures were endangered, Beings abused, or habitats destroyed? Hermione, in coordination with Malfoy. Every single time. She cited him, and he lazed around in his oversized office finding legal loopholes. She’d petitioned to work with someone else, anyone else, and been informed that Malfoy had travelled “extensively” through Europe to prepare for the role and if she couldn’t find a way to get along with him, she could find a different position.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’d managed to bring their mutual roiling antagonism down to a reserved simmer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Malfoy was the sort of person who clearly could be smart if he wanted to be, and so the fact that he didn’t irritated her more than anything else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re – cordial enemies,” she said at last. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Malfoy gave a small nod of agreement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right now, as it happens,” she folded her hands on her desk in an attempt to look assured, “we’re both faced with unfortunate situations which I think we could collaboratively remedy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She straightened in her seat. “Molly is determined to try to find me a boyfriend, regardless of my feelings on the matter. She’s going to seat me with someone at the reception unless I bring a date of my own.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not that this isn’t fascinating, but is there any reason that you’re inflicting this sad, single diatribe on me?” Malfoy made a pitiful face. “I gave up my perfectly awful lunch for this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am getting to that,” Hermione’s voice tightened and she glared at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll have to forgive my current scepticism regarding the intentions of your sex.” Draco’s smug tone of voice was only equalled in the smug smirk which he slapped on his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am in a very happy relationship with my library,” she said with a sniff, “but my preferences on this point are being blatantly ignored, as are yours. Hence your current case of involuntary celibacy. Everyone knows that you haven’t been voluntarily single since the day you left Hogwarts. Even the Social Snitcher suspects you must have some secret affair going on to account for this unprecedented dry spell.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am shocked and flattered that you pay so much attention to my private life.” He fluttered his lashes angelically, and Hermione felt tempted to bludgeon him with something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She gritted her teeth. “You’re not the only person the Social Snitcher is lampooning. That’s why I think we should team up. If people think we’re together, most of your social climbers –”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“– I think you mean gold diggers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“ –will stop chasing after you. And if I’m seen with you, then Molly and Ginny and everyone else in my life will stop trying to set me up on blind dates and seating me with the likes of Cormac McLaggen. Now do you understand?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cormac McLaggen!” Draco looked mildly disgusted, as if someone had waved something nasty-smelling under his nose. She may have seen a similar expression on his mother’s face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not as if either of us would ever actually like each other.” She wanted to ensure that point was carefully established.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No chance of that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She scrunched her nose. “I don’t want anything you can offer, and you have always been quite clear about what you think of me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What can you ever mean, Granger. I think you’re a marvel to the modern Wizarding world.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She rolled her eyes and pressed on. “There’s no chance whatsoever that we’d develop feelings for one another. So, if we spend a few weeks pretending we’ve been cultivating a secret relationship and are now madly in love, it will buy you time after that ridiculous article, and spare me from being treated like some sad spinster just because my ex is getting married. When the wedding is over, we go our separate ways.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Malfoy placed his hand on his chin, doing a remarkable impression of someone thinking. “So let me get this as straight as a broom: we spend the next two weeks pretending we’ve swallowed a couple of love potions, with the hope that the </span>
  <em>
    <span>obvious</span>
  </em>
  <span> passion between us puts a kibosh on any other matchmaking plans.” He raised an eyebrow again, but this time it was less quizzical and more sceptical. “I know you’re known for your brilliant schemes, however this seems so fantastically out of the realms of possibility...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He let the unspoken question of the genius of her plan hang in the air like a pendulum. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione pursed her lips. That was a valid point. In theory, pretending to be in love with Malfoy while he did the same to her seemed like an efficient exploitation of a mutual problem, the reality in which they would actually have to convincingly pretend to feel anything but a deep-seated irritation was a significant obstacle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Malfoy looked pleased at her hesitation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bastard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tossed her head. “I managed to con my way into a Gringotts vault by impersonating your aunt, I don’t imagine that pretending to be in love with you could be much harder. I think I can manage it; the decision’s up to you. Do you think you’re capable of it, or do you want to fold now? ”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes narrowed, his jaw twitching incrementally, and she knew from years of observing that particular micro-expression that his competitive streak had been activated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She raised her eyebrows, giving a tight-lipped smile. “So, do you think you can do it, or not?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Very Dull Liaisons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="letter"><p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em> Since our expose into the wealth, dating history, and financial position of one Mr Draco Malfoy, we have noticed a great illness seems to have swept London and the surrounding areas. Young, single women seem to be inexplicably falling, fainting and losing all sense of balance whenever they are within spitting – or catching – distance of Draco Malfoy.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> We have named this strange phenomenon the Malfoy Matrimonial Malady.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Very few women seem to have been untouched by this affliction, and there are rumours that the Minister himself intends to address the nation on controlling the spread of this strange and degrading sickness.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> However, one could argue that the greatest sufferer of this plague is none other than Mr Malfoy himself, who has been looking rather harassed as of late. We have also noted that Mr Malfoy seems to be absconding from his usual dating, and we wonder if this matrimonial sickness sweeping the women of London has something to do with it.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> We do hope that he recovers his health and philandering soon.  </em>
</p>
<p>— February 2009, <strong>The Social Snitcher,</strong> in <strong> <em>Witch Weekly</em> </strong></p><hr/></div><p>Granger was walking at a brisk pace. It was like they were late to something and not ten minutes early. </p>
<p>“Can you slow down?” Draco’s unhurried strides were leaving him more than ten meters behind her. “You look like you’re trying to escape me, rather than being besotted with me.”</p>
<p>Granger’s steps slowed incrementally, and she started shooting him what would be easily termed a ‘habitual glare’ before catching herself. She paused and instead forced the most unconvincing smile he’d ever seen, assuming the most exaggeratedly slothlike gait.</p>
<p>“I said slow down, not regress to a neanderthal,” he drawled. </p>
<p>“I thought that was about your speed.”</p>
<p>“Now, now.” He picked up her arm, which was hanging limply by her side in her continued neolithic impression, and tucked it into the corner of his elbow. “We are meant to be impersonating a happy couple. I know the reality is as far from ‘happy’ or ‘couple’ as it is humanly possible to be, but endeavour to try.”</p>
<p>“Of course, I adore you.” She tossed her hair, sticking her chin out in a way which wasn’t exactly besotted, but was better than her previous portrayal of the missing-link. “How could I help myself, you’re the physical embodiment of practically every character flaw known to man.”</p>
<p>“Thank goodness, it has only taken you almost twenty years to realise this.” Draco patted the top of her hand in a vaguely patronising gesture, causing her fingers to briefly curl into claws against the inside of his elbow. He suppressed a growl and some jibe about kittens and claws. “Remember to smile, darling, and try to look a little less constipated.”</p>
<p>Granger looked rather as if he’d force fed her some of the Ministry cafeteria’s mysterious meatloaf by the time they reached the meeting room, and her left eyelid was twitching with suppressed aggravation. </p>
<p>“Don’t forget, you have to side with me during the meeting,” she said through her teeth as he held the door for her, consummate gentleman that he was. She even managed a marginally sincere ‘thank you’ as she stepped past him into the room, her back stiffening like a blackboard.  </p>
<p>“Your wish is my wish.” He walked to his usual chair and graciously pulled it out for her to sit down. He half-expected her to object to sitting on his end of the table rather than hers, but she seated herself without a word and pulled a stack of files out of an impossibly small bag. “Say,” he slid into the chair, murmuring a cushioning charm as the Ministry seemed to be incapable of buying chairs which didn’t make one’s arse go numb in under five minutes, “do you happen to know what this meeting is in reference to?”</p>
<p>It was probably a stupid question: she was Hermione Granger, of course she would know. She looked as though she’d swallowed something the wrong way. Perhaps, the Angel’s Delight – a wobbly, pink opaque jelly substance – from yesterday’s culinary cabaret.</p>
<p>“It’s the annual budget meeting for our departments.” Her low voice was practically vibrating with disbelief. “Have you not prepared for this?”</p>
<p>“Oh<em> that </em> annual budget meeting.” Draco turned his head to face her and gave her his pre-prepared confident smile. “I am entirely, completely prepared. Finished up all the budgeting last week, total doddle that it was.”</p>
<p>Hermione looked entirely, completely unconvinced. Which was fair as he was lying through his teeth, but she was either being far too polite to question him, which was strange as she usually held no qualms in chewing him out, or she’d gone into shock over his appeared lack of work ethic, which sounded a lot more plausible. He might have mulled over Granger’s out-of-character behavior more if Blaise hadn’t appeared, looming over Draco like a very Continental-looking Count Dracula. </p>
<p>“You’re in my seat.” Blaise said, eyeing Draco down the slope of his nose.   </p>
<p>“I know, but I gave Gra – Hermione my chair.”</p>
<p>Blaise raised an eyebrow and then the other. Draco wasn’t sure in which order the eyebrows were corresponding to: Granger being in his chair or him calling her by her first name. </p>
<p>“I wasn’t asking Miss Granger to move. I was requesting that you remove your person from my chair.”</p>
<p>Hermione shuffled her chair back. “I’m quite happy to move –”</p>
<p>“No, you’re not.” Draco placed his hand on the back of her chair and firmly pushed it in. “I’m sorry, Blaise,” Draco said, not sounding sorry at all. “But I really cannot bear to be separated from this woman.” He lifted his hand, briefly tapping the top of Granger’s. “I’m in love.” </p>
<p>The entire room went silent.</p>
<p>“You’re in love.” Blaise said the words as if Draco had just announced he was infected with some virulent sexual disease.</p>
<p>“Madly,” Draco said, feeling that the sentiment wasn’t an entire untruth. He was mad for agreeing to this scheme that Granger had cooked up. </p>
<p>He should never have agreed to her ruse.  It was ridiculous. Preposterous, even. A disaster waiting to happen. No one would believe them. They were renowned, decade long antagonists, who had existed in this uneasy limbo of courtesy and enforced comradeship. How had she put it? Oh yes. <em> Cordial Enemies. </em> Catchy title, he couldn’t help but agree. </p>
<p>“With Hermione Granger,” Blaise said, flatly. He turned to Granger as if seeking some sort of confirmation, but on Draco’s announcement, she’d turned blossom pink, her eyes wide and her lips parted. </p>
<p>She did not look the picture of love, but rather closer to the picture of cardiac arrest. </p>
<p>“Well you know how it is,” Draco said, not knowing how it was at all. “One day you’re calmly carrying on with your life, and the next you look at a woman you’ve known since you were eleven years old and suddenly realise what you’ve been missing.”</p>
<p>“But she hates you.” Blaise again looked at Granger, whose eyes were now so wide that the whites entirely showed. “You do hate him, right?”</p>
<p>Draco wrapped an arm around Hermione’s shoulders, pulling her closer to him in a manner that was more brotherly than erotic. “Ah, but what is hate but love turned on its head.”</p>
<p>“You,” Blaise addressed Granger, “called him an idiot in the meeting last week.”</p>
<p>“I –I –” she stuttered, before being interrupted – or saved – by Draco: </p>
<p>“Just playful banter.”</p>
<p>“And that you didn’t understand how he hadn’t been sacked yet.”</p>
<p>“Merely verbal foreplay.” When Blaise looked unconvinced, Draco added, “I’m going through a submissive stage.”</p>
<p>Blaise said nothing. Granger managed to turn a spectacular shade of Weasley red.</p>
<p>“You know,” Draco said, raising his hand and waving it in the air in a hitting motion, “women clad in leather, whips, chains, Hermione in her schoolmarm voice telling me I’ve been a very naughty boy –”</p>
<p>“If you don’t stop talking, I will beat you to death,” Granger said under her breath, looking a mortified combination of rage and astonishment.</p>
<p>Draco turned to her, balancing his chin on his palm. “You promise?”</p>
<p>Her mouth snapped shut as she glanced around the room looking horrified. </p>
<p>“– Oh Merlin, stop!” Blaise rubbed his eyes as if trying to permanently remove the images his imagination was now supplying him. “I’ve known you for your whole adult life, and I’ve already seen too much of you; I do not need to know about your sex life.”</p>
<p>“Need or want?”</p>
<p>“I am warning you, Malfoy.” Blaise held out his finger and waggled it in Draco’s direction. </p>
<p>“Oh that’s it, daddy,” Draco said, raising his voice in a false falsetto and fluttering his eyelashes, “give it to me good.” </p>
<p>The entire prospect was ridiculous. Who could even imagine Hermione Granger in fetish gear. She was entirely a knit and cotton kind of girl. He doubted she even owned anything with lace on, let alone pvc and leather. Granted, her current outfit had a certain school-teacher look to it, but she’d toned down any possibility of sex appeal by pairing her blouse with a very ugly woollen cardigan.  </p>
<p>“You’re a terrible human being,” Blaise said, interrupting his thoughts. </p>
<p>Granger still appeared too horrified to speak.</p>
<p>The corner of Draco’s mouth lifted in a smile. “You are aware that degradation is what’s currently turning me on, correct?”</p>
<p>Draco would have kept going, but unfortunately the head of the Budgetary Committee saw fit to enter the room just then. “Blaise,” he said, waving at Granger’s usual chair which stood empty, “sit down and stop holding up the traffic.”</p>
<p>Blaise looked like he had murder in his heart as he stomped over to the other side of the table. Draco flashed Blaise a smile as Blaise pulled out the chair and sat down with less than his usual languid grace. As Blaise did this, Draco became aware of eyes upon him, but not the usual female gaze which he had been subjected to these past weeks. These stares were more ones of disturbed disbelief. </p>
<p>“Everyone is looking at us,” Granger said quietly, shuffling her shoulders in an attempt to dislodge his hold. </p>
<p> “Was that not the idea?” he said, equally as quiet. </p>
<p>“Yes…” she was pretending to be looking for something in her bag in order to lean close and speak discreetly. “The reality of this is just worse than I had emotionally prepared myself for.”</p>
<p>“I am quite a handful.” </p>
<p>Granger’s blush – which was already rampant enough to cook an English Breakfast on her cheeks – migrated down her neck, turning her skin a nice shade of blotchy-rose. </p>
<p>“If you can, please refrain from speaking until this meeting is over, and keep your hands to yourself,” she shrugged off his arm, “we’re in a professional setting.”</p>
<p>“Do you mean speaking in general or just speaking to you?”</p>
<p>Draco sat back in Blaise’s chair, grateful that he’d put that cushioning charm on, and prepared to settle into an hour long meeting where he’d barely have to contribute. Quidditch was Quidditch, and it was one of the biggest sources of entertainment and revenue for Wizarding society. He’d never been bothered with budgetary cuts or having to fight his corner to ensure his projects got the funding they needed. The biggest event which he was in charge of organising was next week, and he’d been given fantastic finances for it. However, as it was going to be packed with the who's-who of current Quidditch and sporting talent and be in central London, that budget had very quickly been allocated. A large budget was, naturally, needed for the type of event he’d organise. </p>
<p>He was just mentally running through exactly which of his tuxes he’d wear to this upcoming event, when his deep mental cogitations were interrupted by the enthusiastic use of his name by Granger.</p>
<p>"Draco has agreed to hold a fundraising match in June for the conservation fund, which should level out our budget perfectly." </p>
<p>He blinked. “Pardon?” he said, his voice about two octaves higher than normal. </p>
<p>Granger turned, her expression effusive. “Oh, I was just telling everyone that you agreed to host a fundraising match in order to help with the Department of Magical Creatures’ fund for the Doxy habitat.”</p>
<p>“I did?” This didn’t sound like him, particularly for such an odious creature as the Doxies. Little venomous spider-like fairies, with teeth and beetle-wings. A shiver crept up his spine, like the twenty-fingered crawl of a Doxy. Draco did not like bugs. </p>
<p>“Yes, in our private meeting earlier, because you know how important this is to me.” Granger’s smile was bright and her eyes were murderous, and if Draco were going through a submissive phase, the sight would have done wonders for his libido. Unfortunately, he was not, and instead the effect of such a<em> femme fatale </em> stare was making any lustful passions in him curl up and die. </p>
<p>Hortense Fletcher, his boss, turned on him. “Have you?” Fletcher said, the disapproval apparent on his face as well as in his voice. “Do we have the budget for it?” </p>
<p>It was a royal ‘we’, a ‘we’ of the whole of the Department of Magical Sports and Game, and contrary to popular belief, they did not like to share. </p>
<p>Draco’s eyes flew to Blaise, who pretended to not notice him for just a half a second too long for Draco’s sanity before nodding his head in confirmation. </p>
<p>“Yes,” Draco said, slapping on a confident smile, “we have the budget for a small fundraiser for those pesky, little Doxies.”</p>
<p>“Actually,” Granger flashed a brilliant smile around the room, “part of our work is to separate the idea that Doxies are pests and help people understand that they simply lack the appropriate habitat areas.”</p>
<p>“Your Doxies, I’m sure, are delightful. In return,” Draco said, aiming his unwavering smile at Fletcher this time, “Hermione has been gracious enough to reconsider her previous view on the national mid-seasons semi-final on the Norfolk Downs.” </p>
<p>Granger made a small combusting sound near his ear. “The Norfolk Downs are the Horklump mating grounds, Magical Sport’s proposal overlooked the lunar —” </p>
<p>“We would not dream of interfering with their copulation.” </p>
<p>Hortense Fletcher grimaced, but that was always what he did when he was tolerably pleased, and Draco could tell he’d had the spinach and ricotta bake for lunch because it was stuck in his teeth. </p>
<p>“That was a joy to behold,” Blaise said once the meeting had commenced, following them out of the room like a very obvious stalker. “Can I be expecting more sexual nepotism, just so I can account for it in next quarter’s budget.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.” Draco’s eyebrows flashed, which he wasn’t aware they could do, and he rounded on Granger. “Are we going to have any other unexpected surprises?”</p>
<p>She batted her lashes. </p>
<p>“Is there a type of surprise that isn’t unexpected?”  She smiled at him, but her eyes were venomous. “Perhaps we could have a word in private?”</p>
<p>Draco was really rather done with her surfeit of smiles. “I cannot express how much I agree with us having a moment to ourselves.” </p>
<p>“Okay,” Blaise said, elongating the ‘o’ until it almost filled the awkward space between them all, “I’m going back to work. Draco, I’ll see you...whenever you’re both finished.”</p><hr/>
<p>“Would you care to explain?” Draco said, resting his foot against his knee as he sat back in the chair opposite Granger’s desk. </p>
<p>“I thought that a fundraiser was more than appropriate given that you decided to disclose details of our colourful sex life to three different department Heads. Including my supervisor, your supervisor, the head of the Budgeting Committee, and two of my colleagues within my Department.” Now that they were in private, she looked mad enough to spit. Her hair appeared to be on the verge of enraged sentience. </p>
<p>“If we want to sell this” – he gestured back and forth between them – “then we need to advertise. You cannot possibly be naive enough to think that people are going to buy this” – this time he made a circular motion to encapsulate all of her as if she was the entire issue, which she technically was – “if we don’t spruce it up a little.” </p>
<p>She drew a deep breath through her nose and slowly sat down behind her desk, her knuckles white.</p>
<p>“I was hoping we’d be demonstrating a more – intellectual connection.” She squared her shoulders, seemingly determined to salvage the subterfuge despite her new reputation as a dominatrix. “Obviously we fell in love working together, so… I don’t think it’s necessary for us to act like the only thing bringing us together is the kink you’ve arbitrarily decided to foist on me. We said ‘in love’ so there’s no reason to be so – overtly carnal.”</p>
<p>The fuzzy imagining of Granger as a dominatrix sunk back down to the depths of his mind. Draco flinched. He actually flinched. “What do you mean not ‘overtly carnal’? I am not about to have you sully my perfectly disrespectful reputation by giving the impression that we are in the throes of pure, chaste love.” </p>
<p>A flush of scarlet flooded across her cheeks, not quite as bad as the Weasley red of earlier, but still rather prominent. “Well, thanks to your performance in the Budget meeting, I don’t think there’s any chance of that. You’re supposed to convince people that you love me, not that you simply want to sleep with me. Do you think you can possibly manage that distinction, or does everything have to be utterly salacious with you?”</p>
<p>“Salacious is entertaining,” Draco said, drawing himself up and feeling certain that he had infinitely more authority on the subject than she did.</p>
<p>“I’m not a salacious, lewd, or smutty person.” Her dark lashes fluttered as she scanned his face. Her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue darted out and smoothed over her bottom lip, a quick flash of rosy pink. </p>
<p>Draco’s mouth went unexpectedly dry, and there was a pause before he realised he was expected to reply. </p>
<p>“Did you just say ‘smutty’?” His voice jumped half an octave and he had to cough. “I don’t think I’ve heard that word since my grandmother – ”  </p>
<p>“Shut up.” She rolled her eyes. “The point is, no one would ever believe that I’ve suddenly turned into <em> you. </em>” She snorted derisively. “We’re supposed to be feigning legitimate feelings, not propagating the rumour that we’ve been running about having quick and dirty shags. We’re faking a relationship, not a one night stand.”</p>
<p>She made – and he begrudged this admission with nearly every bone in his body – a point. She wasn’t a one night stand kind of girl. The thought of Granger even contemplating the notion of a one night stand was preposterous. She was not the type of girl to run her toe up his calf on a first date, smiling coquettishly over the rim of her glass. Her eyes dancing with every sip of champagne, as her foot slid further up, following the inside seam of his trousers, until she – </p>
<p>Oh. </p>
<p>Oh. no. </p>
<p>Oh <em> hell </em> no.  </p>
<p>The sensory scene popped like a champagne cork. </p>
<p>He wet his lips and shifted, trying to keep his eyes on her face, but then she nibbled at her lower lip which was most unhelpful. He tore his eyes away and found that she was staring at him, apparently expecting him to be saying something. </p>
<p>“I fail to see the distinction,” he said, trying to recall what exactly her last point had been. It was a fair guess that he’d been about to disagree with her and that the disagreement could plausibly involve a distinction of some sort.</p>
<p>“Of course you can’t.” Her expression soured. “What happened today was unethical. If we want this to succeed, we need to agree that, from now on, work stays out of it. Our fake relationship should not have any repercussions on our professional lives. Nobody close to me will believe that someone in love with me would be freely sharing the details of my sex life. We may be doing this at the Ministry, but our actual jobs stay out of this. Agreed?” </p>
<p>Her tone was sharp, and it sent an unexpected jolt through him.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” he sighed and raised his right hand as if swearing an oath. He felt she’d appreciate the seriousness with which he was taking her command. “I agree.” </p>
<p>She let out a deep breath. “I’m sure we can play it off as a joke. I don't think anyone fell for that performance today. We can convince them in other ways. We’re both — reasonably clever. Between the two of us, I’m sure we can manage.”</p><hr/>
<p>“Of course you are.”</p>
<p>“We are!”</p>
<p>“Of course, I believe you,” said Ginny in a tone clearly meant to indicate that she was a very tired mother of three children and refused to be involved in irrational arguments.</p>
<p>“Draco and I are dating,” Hermione said firmly. She was determined to prove that it was entirely possible to convince people about the validity of her feelings for Malfoy without involving their imaginary sex life.</p>
<p>“Uh-huh,” was all Ginny said. </p>
<p>Breaking the news of her relationship bliss was proving slightly more difficult than anticipated. Everyone had been so eager to force Hermione into a relationship, she’d assumed they’d all be thrilled and relieved at the news and immediately believe her when she said she was in one. Specifically with a real, human man. And one that they knew.  </p>
<p>No one believed her. </p>
<p>Not Molly. Not Harry. Not Ginny. Not even Arthur, whom Hermione had thought would unquestioningly believe practically anything she said. </p>
<p>She’d spent all of dinner asserting the sincerity of her passionate feelings for Malfoy and assuring Molly again and again that she did not need to be seated with Cormac because Malfoy <em> was </em> her date. They would attend the wedding together, as a couple. They would be sitting together at the reception, holding hands, playing footsie, communicating with each other via microessions and soft smiles or whatever it was that couples were supposed to do when they were madly in love. </p>
<p>But no one would believe her. </p>
<p>It was fortunate that Ron and Pansy weren’t in Britain at the moment or Hermione suspected that the house would have exploded.</p>
<p>Hermione didn’t mind Pansy, but the relationship between them had always been exactly what it was: Hermione as the ex-girlfriend who was practically “part of the family” interacting with Pansy, the new girlfriend, now fiancée, soon to be wife, who was actually going to <em> be </em> a part of the family. The Weasleys had always been a tight-knit bunch, and Hermione had understood since Fourth Year that her place within it was ultimately conditional upon Ron and Harry’s welcome, which by extension resulted in Molly’s. </p>
<p>Pansy was, quite abundantly, all the things that Hermione had never managed to be when dating Ron. The kind of girlfriend who wanted to be shown off; who was happy to watch a Quidditch practice while wearing high fashion, to travel for games, and attend the after-parties without ever slipping away, who could somehow drink Ron under the table in a way that only seemed to make him love her more.  </p>
<p>Hermione didn’t dislike Pansy, but she also had never felt as that, as Ron’s ex-girlfriend and the only person who wasn’t family, that she wouldn’t be allowed to dislike Pansy even if she wanted to. </p>
<p>As it happened, Pansy was currently attending something that was important for people who lived and breathed fashion, and had taken Ron with her as a little “getaway” prior to the final stress and flurry of the wedding. </p>
<p>Hermione had seen it as the perfect opportunity to announce and normalise the news of her whirlwind relationship in the absence of an ex who had certain knowledge that might make Hermione’s arguments less believable. If the relationship was already accepted by everyone before Ron returned, Hermione felt like she had a much better chance of being convincing. </p>
<p>The irony of dating Malfoy was that, after nearly twelve years post-Hogwarts, Hermione was the one who still disliked him most and unfortunately everyone knew it. Harry and Ron had ‘come around’ to Malfoy after years of interacting with him in Magical Sports. Ron was a professional Keeper, and Harry regularly played in the Ministry’s intramural Quidditch league. </p>
<p>Malfoy had come back from his European tour with a reformed personality that didn’t sneer relentlessly at everyone. Now he harassed people with false sincerity. If he didn’t regard someone as worth his time, he had the galling habit of giving them a quick once-over, followed by a brief, pitying smile before he ignored them. Forever. Hermione, he only ever acknowledged when she was in his way.</p>
<p>As an adult, he knew how to get along when need be. He didn’t work often, but when the need arose he was a ruthless negotiator and he did take his ‘duties’ on behalf of Britain’s Quidditch league seriously. Anyone who took Quidditch seriously couldn’t be all bad, according to Harry and Ron.</p>
<p>Hermione, on the other hand, despised the entire Department, and the sport, and by extension, Malfoy. Although there was plenty to dislike about Malfoy all on his own.</p>
<p>She’d followed Ginny upstairs while she nursed Lily, determined to convince her. If Ginny believed it, everyone would eventually accept it, and if Ron came back and decided to make any disparaging remarks of disbelief, Ginny would simply steamroll him until he was two-dimensional. </p>
<p>Lily’s head was hidden beneath Ginny’s shirt while her mother rolled her eyes at Hermione for the fifth time. </p>
<p>Hermione folded her arms and dropped onto the second bed, scowling.  </p>
<p>There was no reason she couldn’t be madly in love with Draco Malfoy. It wasn’t as if he was a Death Eater any more; he’d dated at least a dozen Muggle-borns over the years. Hermione knew this because it had shocked the tabloids to a degree that had been impossible to ignore. If she wanted to make poor life choices and enter into a relationship with an unworthy man, or even be stupid enough to develop feelings for him, she was entitled to do it. </p>
<p>Malfoy was a womanising bastard, but if Hermione wanted to date one of those, there was no reason she couldn’t. </p>
<p>She cut off her internal monologue. She was digressing. She was supposed to be madly in love with Malfoy, and she had to come up with a plausible explanation as to why. This was her idea. She’d told Malfoy that she was certain <em> she </em>could pull it off. She’d made it a challenge. She wasn’t going to let him prove her wrong.</p>
<p>“You know….” she started and then faltered.</p>
<p>Ginny was staring at her with an expression of tired expectancy.</p>
<p>“We — fell in love — working together. You know we work together a lot during Quidditch season.” Hermione twisted a curl around her finger, tugging at it. “It’s not as if we planned on it. All those long meetings all the time. It was inevitable.”</p>
<p>“You and Malfoy?” Ginny said in a deadpan voice. “Are inevitable?”</p>
<p>Hermione stared in horror, and it took her a moment to recover herself. She gave a small cough in a bid for time. “Yes! I mean,” she swallowed, “he’s not bad. He’s not the worst person I could be dating. I could date anyone. I could have an affair — if I wanted to.”</p>
<p>Ginny’s right eyebrow arched upward sharply. </p>
<p>Hermione folded her arms. “I don’t want to. I’m just saying, I could.”</p>
<p>“Have an affair? Or date someone worse than Malfoy?” Ginny’s tone was so dry that Hermione felt somewhat dehydrated just hearing it. </p>
<p>“Well, both. I could do both if I wanted to. Simultaneously even.” Judging by Ginny’s expression, Hermione felt as though she might have lost track of the point. She waved a hand. </p>
<p>“That’s not the point though. I’m not! No affairs! I’m dating Malfoy and I think you should be happy for me because I’m happy. He’s clever. Employed…” She tried to think of something else positive that could be said about Malfoy and drew a complete blank. “He wears very nice suits. And – !” She racked her mind. “His penmanship is good. It’s always been legible. I can’t say that about very many men.”</p>
<p>“Uhuh.” Ginny peeked down the neckline of her shirt at the infant partially concealed therein.</p>
<p>It was becoming abundantly clear that feigning an intellectual connection with Malfoy was doomed to failure. There was quite simply no plausible intellectual connection to build off. They had absolutely nothing in common except their distaste for one another. </p>
<p>Salacious was interesting. Convincing.</p>
<p>Damn Malfoy to hell for being right about that. </p>
<p>“And — ” her ears were already burning before she opened her mouth, “ — there’s always been a lot of –– energy between us. He’s not exactly shy and neither am I, and when we’re alone — together — the tension rises.” She gave an attempt at an innocent shrug. “It has to go somewhere. So, a few weeks back, during a meeting we —”</p>
<p>“So this started in your office?” Ginny suddenly looked interested.</p>
<p>Hermione nodded slowly, trying to remember if there was a plausible timeline she could build a torrid affair off.</p>
<p> She and Malfoy had had a vicious series of meetings around that time; a matter of not hosting Quidditch matches too close to Wandwood forests. Malfoy had shown up with legislation from the seventeenth century empowering him to use the areas for Wizard sport and Hermione had countered it with more recent legislation protecting wand production and Bowtruckle colonies. It turned out that the original law hadn’t been overturned, and by Wizarding law that meant that both laws existed despite being in direct contradiction with one another. It had turned into two days of overtime with Malfoy, being forced to find a legal compromise that neither of their Departments could overturn. </p>
<p>Now that she was thinking about it, it occurred to her that during those meetings they could have hypothetically closed in on one another during an argument, invading each other’s personal space with an impassioned argument until they suddenly became aware of just how close they were to one another physically. Maybe – if Malfoy hadn’t been trying to exploit the legal impasse to disturb the endangered bowtruckle colonies all for an exaggerated game of catch – Hermione might have thought about something other than what a foul loathsome and evil little cockroach he was. </p>
<p>The tension might have shifted. </p>
<p>Malfoy was significantly taller than her. He always stared down at her when they were both standing, and there was this sort of relentless intensity in his eyes and voice when he was frustrated by her. He might have stepped forward, and Hermione would have obviously held her ground, refusing to be intimidated in her own office, until they were standing mere inches apart, studying each other’s faces, exhausted from negotiations and over time, blood pounding, emotions at the brink of crescendo —</p>
<p>“Hermione?”  </p>
<p>Hermione gave a startled gasp as she was abruptly snapped from the internal reverie of Malfoy’s hypothetically looming frame and gleaming silver eyes and was met instead with the sight of Ginny’s incredulous stare. </p>
<p>Her cheeks burned and she dropped her eyes down to her lap, fidgeting as she gave a jerky nod. “We didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did. And then it’s kept happening. We don’t want to keep hiding it anymore.”</p>
<p>Ginny looked contemplative. </p>
<p>This was working. Hermione inhaled and went in for the kill. “You don't have to believe me. None of you have to. I just thought you'd be happy for me. It doesn't matter. I just wanted to mention it before the wedding.”</p>
<p>Lily was trying to reach up and stick her fingers in Ginny’s mouth, but she caught her chubby hand expertly and shoved it back down inside her shirt.</p>
<p>Ginny shifted, crossing her legs and leaning forward, suddenly beginning to look sincerely interested. “Alright fine. I’ll bite. Tell me all the details. Why is it that you’re so in love with Draco Malfoy now?”</p>
<p>Hermione blinked. “Well – you know, he’s very tall.”</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Lengthy Encounter</h2></a>
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    <em>For any of you who were fortunate enough to be at Hogwarts at the same time as the bride and groom, you will recall the events of their second year of Hogwarts. The most memorable occurrence being the Valentine’s Day celebrations organised by that disgraced author, Gilderoy Lockheart. </em>
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    <em> The castle was pink, Professor Snape never looked happier, and dwarves dressed as cupid strode about the castle, forcing students to hear romantic Valentine's Day messages from their not-so-secret-admirers. The most well-remembered being the Valentines which Harry Potter received from persons unknown.  </em>
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    <em> Miss Parkinson, soon to be Weasley, seems to have been inspired by her school days in the planning of her wedding. For not only as the bride-to-be, chosen the colour pink to be her theme, but there are also rumours which have come to this author’s attention that these cupidian dwarves will be making a return appearance.  </em>
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    <em> Hopefully, now that bestman, Mr Potter, is happily married, this Valentine’s Day will not see a repeat of ‘His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad’.  </em>
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    <em> However, my sources tell me that Draco Malfoy is able to perform the ditty on command. Whether the wedding guests will be more disturbed by Mr Malfoy’s singing voice or the reliving of Mr Potter’s childhood trauma is to only be theorised.  </em>
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  <p>— February 2009, <strong>The Social Snitcher</strong>, in <strong><em>Witch Weekly</em></strong></p>
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</div><p>Draco started when Granger plonked herself unceremoniously down on the seat next to him. The woman really did have all the grace of a drunken horklump. </p><p>She seemed to have just arrived at the Ministry, which, as it was lunchtime, either meant she was running very, very late, or she had already been in and out of the office, overseeing something to do with Magical Creatures. She was dressed in some disgusting maroon cocoon which could have been mistaken for a coat by the partially-sighted, and an extremely bright red scarf which so screamed ‘I’m a Gryffindor’ that all she was missing were pom-poms. On her hands were black leather gloves, which were ferociously clutching a beaded bag as if it somehow contained the lost library of Alexandria. The gloves were well-made, probably Italian, and elegant in a way that clashed sharply with the rest of her attire’s aggressive practicality, with neat stitching and three pearlized buttons which winked at him under the hem of her coat sleeves. </p><p>It might not be a corset or thigh-high boots, but there was something to be said for the subtle way in which the leather highlighted her slim fingers, the slight tightness at the seams, and the dark richness of the black against her skin... </p><p>He really needed to stop thinking about Granger in leather.</p><p>Draco glanced up from her hands and was disconcerted to find that in addition to being semi-leather clad, she looked rather alluringly irate, which was a sure sign that it had been much too long since he’d been on a proper date and he was already losing his mind somewhat.</p><p>“Malfoy –” she started, but Draco cut her off. </p><p>He waved his finger in front of her face like one would to reprimand a naughty child. Judging by the expression on her face, she looked like she was deliberating the ways to separate the digit from the rest of his hand. </p><p>He quickly lowered his finger. </p><p>“Now, now,” he said, shuffling away from her by a few inches, “we are in the throes of intellectually connected passion. You cannot refer to a man that you cerebrally ravish by his surname. We are so deeply enamoured by each other, there should be no barriers to our intimacy”</p><p>A myriad of emotions flashed rapidly across Granger’s face, and she inhaled, her face screwing up like a child about to be dosed heavily with cod liver oil. </p><p>“Draco,” she said, sounding less like she was enchanted by him and more like she wanted to commit grievous bodily harm against him. </p><p>“Yes, my song?”</p><p>Her left eyelid visibly twitched, which he’d noticed it did when she was suppressing outrage. She glanced away and drew a deep breath.</p><p>“Draco,” she said again, shifting herself closer to him in a way that Draco would have taken as a very positive sign from any other woman. However, when Granger did it, it sent an instinctive bolt of fear straight through him, and he glanced down quickly to determine what kind of shoes she was wearing and if she were more likely to kick him in the shins or stomp on his foot. </p><p>She kept leaning in until their faces were unexpectedly close, and Draco’s pulse sky-rocketed abruptly. </p><p>“We need to be more convincing,” she said, her voice a whisper.  “An intellectual connection is not going to work. We have absolutely nothing in common.”</p><p>Draco sighed and relaxed, relieved that she was climbing into his seat in an attempt to converse and not because she’d changed her mind and decided that his murder was the next best way to avoid the Weasley-Parkinson wedding.</p><p>A murder charge would have her wrapped in red-tape for at least a month, if she played her cards right. </p><p>She sighed, still so close that he could feel her warm breath on his neck. “We’ll have to go with your way.”</p><p>Draco swallowed. “My way?”</p><p>“Yes. You know,” she somehow managed to move even closer, “salacious.”</p><p>The sibilance of the word rippled down Draco’s spine like an unexpected electric shock.</p><p>He swallowed. “Oh. Right. My way. Of course.”</p><p>“We’re still supposed to be acting like we’re in love, but I realised last night that we can attribute our historic antagonism to sexual tension. I told Ginny this all started during the Wandwood incident. All those evenings just the two of us in the office, working late, fighting, and then one thing led to another, and you know…” She glanced at him as if to verify that he was following.</p><p>Draco was definitely following. He was absolutely not concentrating on the deep chocolate of her eyes, which held flecks of distilled amber in the right light. </p><p>He gave a small nod.</p><p>“Anyway, Ginny’s the person I need to convince. If she believes we’re really head over heels and can’t keep our hands off of each other, then everyone else will fall in line. I won’t need to convince Harry or Ron, or anyone else. Ginny will do it for me. Which means we need people to <em> see </em> us acting that way.”</p><p>Draco resisted the urge to pull at his collar. He didn’t often have periods of self-doubt, but he was seriously questioning his ability to pretend to be attracted to Granger, whilst pretending for years that he hadn’t been attracted to Granger, when actually he <em> had </em> been attracted to Granger all along, when in reality he had never been attracted to Granger. <em> Ever. Never </em>. </p><p>“So,” he said slowly, trying to buy himself an additional moment, “we need to be more convincing?” </p><p>She nodded and stared expectantly at him, clearly assuming that he would be the one taking the lead in this. </p><p>The sight emboldened him somewhat. Granger had never looked at him with an expression of expectation before and he found that he was rather partial to the sight.</p><p>He tapped his chin, shoving aside his small existential crisis over the idea of trying to imagine himself in love with Granger. “What we need is a display which says to the world that we’re shagging in every available broom cupboard.” The corner of his mouth raised in a smirk. “A spectacle of such libidinous proportions that we ignite the passions of every person within a fifty foot radius.” </p><p>He scanned the cafeteria’s occupants, and his eyes brightened when he settled on his victim.  “Even Mrs Bungsley-Turpinton.” He nodded his head towards the direction of an old woman in a buttoned up cardigan with embroidered ponies on. There was a zimmer frame beside her. “I want Mrs Bungsley-Turpinton to go home to Mr Bungsley-Turpinton and give him the ride of his life this evening.” </p><p>Granger glanced over, and her eyebrows furrowed. “I think he’s dead.”</p><p>“Ah, well, at least remember when she used to give Mr Bungsley-Turpinton the ride of his life.”</p><p>Granger stared doubtfully at him as though reconsidering who should be taking the lead, which wouldn’t do. He was half-afraid to find out what Granger’s idea of salacious would be and didn’t particularly fancy finding out in a crowded cafeteria. </p><p>He sat contemplating for a moment before he cleared his throat, and stared appraisingly at her, trying to divine the best way to convince the world that she was the woman who had bewitched him body and soul. After a moment, he raised an eyebrow, glancing around the cafeteria filled with Ministry employees oblivious to the scene they were about to be treated to, and rested his fingers near to hers on the table, staring contemplatively at her gloves.</p><p> He reached over and picked up her hand, encircling her wrist within his thumb and forefinger. </p><hr/><p>Hermione tensed and went very still, watching with wide eyes that went wider as Malfoy brought her gloved hand up close to his face. </p><p>When she told him that she’d go along with salacious and “can’t keep our hands off each other” she assumed he’d immediately wrap an arm around her waist or breathe all over her neck in some overt display of philandery.<br/>Considering what he’d gone and told their coworkers the day before, it hadn’t seemed unreasonable to expect –– more than holding hands. </p><p>Admittedly, the hand-holding had sent a little jolt through her. Not because of Malfoy, heavens no, but simply because it had been a very long time since she’d held hands with anyone. It wasn’t the sort of thing that a person did as an adult when they didn’t have a significant other, and even when Hermione had been in a relationship – Well, little things like hand-holding had never been the kind of intimacy that Ron saw much of a point in.</p><p>Holding hands was childish and not the sort of thing that anyone was going to call a spectacle of libidinous proportions. </p><p>Malfoy hadn’t bothered to look up and verify whether or not Hermione was playing along with his current improv. As with the Budgetary meeting the day before, he seemed to have thrown himself into a role without warning, and she could only pray that he wasn’t about to pull another stunt as asinine as claiming before her boss that they fell in love while she was dressed up as teacher and beating him with a riding crop.</p><p>His eyes were fastened upon her hand in his. </p><p>“Perhaps what we need,” he said in a low, intimate voice as if he really were speaking to a lover, “is a little demonstrative passion tempered by some old-fashioned chivalry.” </p><p>She wanted to retort that gloved hand holding in the cafeteria was not going to convince anyone of their passion unless they also happened to time-travel to the Regency era, but before she could speak, he shifted in his seat, moving closer and it was as if the air around them was suddenly charged with electricity.</p><p>He stared down at her gloved fingers for a long moment, grey eyes intently fastened on the little bit of bare skin visible between her glove and the cuff of her coat sleeve. The blue veins just barely showed under her skin, and he seemed to be tracing over each one with his eyes. She inhaled, and their nearness meant she could smell the clean, heady scent of jasmine and bourbon that lingered around him.</p><p>She wanted to pull her hand free but she didn’t think they could afford another false start to their “affair,” so she forced herself to let him keep taking visual liberties with her wrist, watching as he stared, seemingly enthralled by that little glimpse beneath her winter layers. The growing sense of anticipation – or maybe it was dread – sent a shiver slowly creeping down her spine. </p><p>She thought she should say something.  He’d said something, hadn’t he? </p><p>She wet her lips, opening her mouth to ask what he was planning, but before she could speak, he reached out with a single fingertip, resting it over the veins as though taking her pulse, and then trailing it along the hem of her glove as though reassuring himself that she wasn’t made of china.</p><p>That little bit of contact sent a wave of heat rippling through her, and her breath caught in her throat. There was an instinctive part of her that wanted to tear her herself free. </p><p>
  <em> No. Play along.  </em>
</p><p>She forced herself to stay still. </p><p>Malfoy glanced up, eyes darting around the room so quickly she wouldn’t have noticed if she weren’t already watching him like a hawk. </p><p>His eyes glittered as he raised her wrist until it was a breath away from his lips. She could feel the warmth of his mouth on that little bit of bare skin, and she shivered, bracing herself and expecting him to press a kiss against her inner-wrist. </p><p>Which — yes, admittedly that would be somewhat erotic, but even a kiss there was hardly a spectacle of libidinous proportions.</p><p>“Play along now,” he said. The words brushed against her skin, ghosting like a caress up the entire length of her arm. </p><p>Hermione would have gone on to live a much more wholesome life if she’d never known what it was like to have Draco <em> Sodding </em> Malfoy’s lips whispering against her inner wrist.  She had never forgotten how to breathe in her entire life, but in that moment, she wasn’t sure that she still remembered the mechanics of it. </p><p>That brief moment of oxygen deprivation resulted in an entire litany of poor life choices. </p><p>Without awaiting her approval, Malfoy dipped his head forward, closing the almost non-existent space between them and caught the lowest button of her glove between his teeth.</p><p>His pale hair fell down over his forehead, and she was struck by how handsome he could be. He probably always had been, but she’d always been distracted by the insincere expressions always on his face when they were in the same room. Objectively speaking, he was handsome, lithely built but with good shoulders that were accentuated by tailoring that was probably obscenely expensive, and clean-cut, angular features that were undeniably easy to stare at.</p><p>And so, Hermione stared, her eyes round with astonishment as he found the spot where the button was fastened, flicking the tip of his tongue under and around and then slowly pressing the button through the opening, releasing it. </p><p>Hermione felt the fitted leather give just a little as it came unfastened.</p><p>He glanced up at her, grey eyes dancing.</p><p>“One down,” was all he said.</p><p>His head dipped down again.</p><p>Hermione tore her eyes away from Malfoy, whose lips were already on the verge of catching the next button on her glove, and discovered that there were several people nearby who’d noticed and were watching. Parvati Patil’s mouth was ajar, her tea cup hanging almost sideways in her hand. Mrs. Bungsley-Turpington too was peering, round-eyed through her spectacles. </p><p>Malfoy’s lips brushed against Hermione’s inner wrist, dragging her attention back as there was another brief tightening of the leather against her skin, and then it loosened further. </p><p>It was as if he’d unfastened something inside her chest. She inhaled sharply and the thought struck that he could unfasten the buttons on her shirt in the same way. If she were pressed back, arched up - </p><p>Her heart rate skyrocketed as she tried to tear her eyes away.</p><p>“Two, now,” he said, still whispering.</p><p>His head dipped down once more, his eyes fluttering closed as he focused, eyebrows furrowing with concentration. His pale lashes fanned across his cheekbones as she watched his lips close around that last little button. Her mouth went dry. Burning frissons sped down her arm into her chest, swirling around and around, and then unspooling into an unwanted pool of heat in her lower abdomen.</p><p>It might have taken him a second or an hour, Hermione couldn’t have said with any certainty. She felt like a deer trapped by a lumos spell as she sat there, captive within a scheme of her own devising, her arm extended, her hand captured in Malfoy’s larger one. His lips brushed across her palm, the tip of his nose grazing her inner wrist like an electric spark. Her fingers twitched, curling inside the leather constraining them. </p><p>She wanted to grip something. </p><p>She wanted to flee. </p><p>She wanted to be able to <em> breathe. </em></p><p>The final button seemed to give him more difficulty than the first two. There was a bit more tugging before she felt that familiar sensation of enclosing as the leather squeezed and then released, leaving a strip of pale skin to the base of her palm.</p><p>Her heart was racing, and she blinked several times as she waited for Malfoy to let go and look around to see if his performance had been a success. </p><p>He’d probably done this trick to seduce dozens of women, and now he was pulling it out with her. She knew he was a prolific profligate, but somehow she hadn’t thought that it would be quite like that. She’d assumed flattery, pretty reusable compliments, and galleons that flowed through his fingers like water. </p><p>It hadn’t occurred to her that his attentions could actually be <em> attention </em>. That his trick was behaving as though a particular woman was the only one in all the world; that she was all he could see. </p><p> Of course, attention was as much an act as compliments would be. Malfoy’s ‘love’ life was an endlessly revolving door, his ‘interest’ appeared and then vanished with even less temperance and constance than the lunar cycle. In this case, his attention wasn’t even borne from a passing sense of interest. He had never afforded Hermione any degree of notice unless it was unavoidable. </p><p>She knew that better than anyone.</p><p>She tried to pull away, but his hold tightened. </p><p>He turned her hand over. Carefully. As if he were cradling a bird with his fingers, holding just enough to keep but not to harm, a grip just sure enough to prevent her from slipping free.</p><p>“Mal – ” she caught herself, “ – Draco, what are you doing?” </p><p>“Helping you with your gloves.” He was still using that low, soft tone. The words jolted through her like fire, and she pressed her knees tightly together.</p><p>His long, pale fingers ran along the length of her hand and then wrapped around her wrist, gentle but inescapably firm. </p><p>Her breath was beginning to grow shorter and her face was burning. She glanced up and found even more of the room was watching now.</p><p>She opened her mouth to say – something. He looked up at her, and to her surprise there wasn’t any mockery in his expression as their eyes met, the way she’d expected. No nonverbal reminder that this was not for her, would never be for her, that she was simply a means to an end. Instead there was a conspiratorial glint in his eyes, as if they were partners in crime. Her heart skipped a beat.</p><p>He drew her hand closer until her fingertips were now near his lips. The corner of his mouth curved into the briefest smile. </p><p>His teeth flashed, catching the tip of her finger. Carefully. Finding the seam that ran across the fingertip of her glove and tugging, just enough to loosen it. Then he moved on to the next finger. Incisors flashing, just the barest sensation of his teeth grazing against her fingertip before he bit down. </p><p>His eyes met hers, the silver morphing into a darkening slate grey as his pupils widened. Hermione watched the shifting colour with a sense of wonder. </p><p>As he approached her pointer finger, his hold on her wrist tightened and he drew her arm slowly down, pulling it out of her glove; her hand now bare and still wrapped possessively in his fingers. </p><p>He sat staring at her with glittering eyes, her glove dangling from his teeth for an extra moment before he caught it with his other hand.</p><p>“Well, do you think that they’ll believe we’re in love now – Hermione?”</p><p>The sound of her name softly rolling off his tongue, quiet and confiding, broke the spell. She pulled her wrist free with a sharp tug, glancing up to find curious eyes in all directions, and the blush that crept up to her hairline was a better performance than she could have ever managed on her own. </p><p>She looked down at her hand, feeling strangely betrayed by it and with herself by extension. Her bare hand felt exposed. She felt exposed, and it was no one’s fault but her own. She had started this. Asked for this. Said “salacious.”</p><p>She curled her fingers into a fist and glanced up again.</p><p>People were staring. Mrs Bungsley-Turpinton did indeed look as if she did perhaps lament the passing of her late husband. Hermione’s tongue darted out, and she wet her lips as she tried to think of how she’d respond in this situation if she were indeed head over heels for Malfoy, and he’d just suddenly flaunted their relationship in front of everyone. The entire premise was so absurd.</p><p> He was still looking at her, his thumb absently stroking across the smooth leather of the glove in his hand. Slow, intentional circles. </p><p>She gave an embarrassed smile that was barely faked, pulling her shoulders up around her ears as if she were trying to hide from view behind Malfoy, sincerely wishing that she actually could. </p><p>“Well,” she said, her voice catching, almost rasping, as if she were hardly able to force the words out, barely in the right order. “I think they’ve noticed now.”</p><p>“Let them watch,” he said, tilting his head to catch her eyes in his. “We have nineteen years of antagonism to undermine. Five years of working together; of frustration, of exasperation, of passions, which have built up between us until we could not stand it any longer. We have a decade of sexual tension to release, Granger. If I am as besotted with you as you want the world to believe, I am being very restrained in my demonstrations. I’d want to have you close, spirit you away to quiet corners, slip into your office for discussions which get out of dizzying control.” He held out her glove, proffering it as if he hadn’t removed it from her hand with his mouth only minutes before. "I think we're going to have quite a bit of fun together.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Much Ado About Something</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="letter"><p>
    
  </p>
<p>
    <em> We are almost lost for words.  </em>
  </p>
<p>
    <em> Almost.  </em>
  </p>
<p>
    <em> The unthinkable, the impossible, the inconceivable has occurred. Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are in love.  </em>
  </p>
<p>
    <em> Hundreds of women are heartbroken at our number one eligible bachelor having been so shockingly scooped off the market. We must admit, we do not know the cardiovascular status of the men in Miss Granger’s life, but we are sure some of them are saddened to see her finally taken off the shelf.  </em>
  </p>
<p>
    <em> In a stunning sequence of events which left one Ministry employee, Mrs Bungsley-Turpinton, in St Mungos, Draco Malfoy laid claim to the famous singleton in a display of such awe-inspiring obscenity we are almost afraid to repeat it. Mr Malfoy took off Miss Granger's clothes in front of the entire Ministry of Magic staff. A kid glove brazenly stripped from her hand. Removed with his teeth.   </em>
  </p>
<p>
    <em> Shocking, I know.  </em>
  </p>
<p>
    <em> If there had been any children present, I am sure their guardians would have covered their eyes.  </em>
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<p>
    <em> We are glad to say that Mrs Bungsley-Turpinton is recovering well from her slight concussion. Following the example of other women in the presence of Draco Malfoy, Mrs Bungsley-Turpinton's injury occurred when, on watching the indecent display of Mr Malfoy removing Miss Granger’s glove, her elbow slipped off the table and she banged her head.   </em>
  </p>
<p>
    <em> I am sure that Draco Malfoy sends her his kindest regards, and hopefully she will be the last casualty in the matrimonial malady which swept the nation.  </em>
  </p>
<p>
    <em> Given Mr Malfoy’s stellar reputation, we are certain that the only wood he will be banging from now on will be Miss Granger’s headboard.  </em>
  </p>
<p>— February, 2009, <strong>The Social Snitcher</strong>, in <strong> <em>Witch Weekly</em> </strong></p><hr/></div><p>“What is this?” Hermione looked up from the scroll in her hands and then back down in bewilderment.</p>
<p>“It’s a script,” Malfoy said as if it were obvious while he draped himself theatrically across the seat that sat opposite her desk.</p>
<p>“Yes, I can see that,” Hermione looked back down at the two foot long screenplay that Malfoy had just waltzed into her office to present her with. “Why did you write this?”</p>
<p>“It’s a scene I’m planning for later today. This way, you can prepare for it. Your acting is a little wooden, so I’ve included some helpful director notes. Well within your range.”</p>
<p>Tension bled out across her shoulders as he leaned forwards and pointed to the direction. It advised her to act ‘annoyed’. Malfoy kept ‘pratting’ on as if he had no idea how close to slow and visceral death he was. </p>
<p>“I managed,” he said, looking extremely pleased with himself as if he’d found the solution to world hunger, “to obtain the custodian schedule, and I have a reasonably good idea of when they mop the fifth floor hallways.”</p>
<p>Hermione sighed and looked over the script again.</p>
<p>“This doesn’t even make sense.” She unfurled the scroll more and grabbed hold of a quill. “None of this conversation is directed towards someone overhearing us. What’s the point of this whole bit about sardines?”</p>
<p>She drew a large X across that section.</p>
<p>“I thought it was funny.” Malfoy looked petulant. “No! You can’t cut that, I worked very hard on those lines. Didn’t you even notice the rhythm of the language? I am a very melodic writer. My mother always said that about me.”</p>
<p>Hermione scratched it out anyway and Malfoy started sulking, giving an audible and seemingly endless sigh of despair as she gutted his script. When he started looking a bit blue in the face from his everlasting sighs, she rolled her eyes and set down the quill, pressing her index fingers firmly against each temple. “So this is what you do over at Magical Sports? Script imaginary conversations with people?”</p>
<p>Malfoy brightened. “I wrote it last night. I had a sore shoulder and the healer sent over a potion, I topped it off with a few shots of firewhiskey and the inspiration struck. Words flowed like water.” He sat back, pressing a finger contemplatively against his lips. “I also had the thought of a poem at some point. Or perhaps a ballad. About us, of course. I could submit it to <em> Witch Weekly... </em> ”</p>
<p>Hermione buried her face in her hands for several seconds. “No. We’re not doing poetry. Honestly, could you be a more pretentious idiot?”</p>
<p>“I could certainly try.”</p><hr/>
<p>“So,” Granger fidgeted behind her desk and glanced down at her watch, “about how long does this need to take?”</p>
<p>They were currently barricaded in her office, like the ancient lovers of old. Although unlike the Tristans and Isoldes, they were having a ‘private meeting’. A little tete-a-tete which was going to run over, just enough that it would appear as if they were tangled up in their passions for each other, but not long enough that it would not coincidentally be timed with them leaving just as everyone was returning from lunch.</p>
<p>It had to be Granger’s office because Magical Sports was not so antiquated as to divvy up all their employees into little shoebox offices and instead enjoyed a more shared and collegial workspace, but although the ability to shoot the occasional spitball at Blaise’s ear from across their joint office was a joy, it did make the illusion of office sex somewhat more difficult to conveniently schedule. </p>
<p>He stretched out his legs in front of him, briefly admiring the way his polished shoes gleamed in the light. “An hour should do it.”</p>
<p>Granger froze and looked up at him aghast. “An hour?”</p>
<p>Draco raised an eyebrow. He smirked “I take it no one has ever spent an hour on you before.”</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes. “Not in the middle of a workday,” she said, looking derisive. </p>
<p>He leant forward, laying his hands over his heart as if he couldn’t contain his love for her. “Even if I didn’t adore you as much as we are saying, I would never disrespect any woman in that careless manner.” </p>
<p>She sighed and slumped sulkily. “Fine. An hour.”</p>
<p>Then she looked down and began filling out paperwork. Draco sat patiently waiting for her to finish whatever it was that she was in the middle of.</p>
<p>Tormenting her was an art, and not one he’d wish to hurry. </p>
<p>The way her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashed when she looked up at him never failed to make his pulse quicken. Life’s thrills were best when embraced, and there was a unique allure to Granger’s private ire. </p>
<p>  Twirling his wand, he started to whistle between his teeth. It was <em>Libiamo ne’lieti calici </em>from the first act of <em>La Traviata</em>.  </p>
<p>Her eyebrows furrowed. She seemed to not have an appreciation for Verdi. </p>
<p>Her thick dark lashes fanned across her cheeks, and she stared down at the scrolls on her desk, nibbling at the tip of her quill or on her lower lip. The subtle curve of her cheek, leading down into the slope of her jaw, was somewhat soothing to follow. Tracking the lines of her face as she studiously ignored him was becoming something of a pastime. He could imagine sitting opposite her, glancing up time to time as she read a book or worked – she could usually be found doing one of these two things – perhaps reiterating some interesting factoid or line to him. It was quite a charming picture.</p>
<p>He got to the crescendo of the piece, making a sound almost so shrill it would only be audible to dogs and bats. Granger bit the end of her quill, leaving two little grooves in the wood. </p>
<p>“Could you shut up?” she looked up at him, her eyes darkened with murder. “Some of us have real jobs.”</p>
<p>“I have a real job, I’m currently delaying approval on a Hungarian acrobatic troupe in order to devote myself to this moment between the two of us.”</p>
<p>Granger exhaled. “Well, why don’t you work on it? Then perhaps you could leave Verdi in peace and not rolling in his grave.”</p>
<p>“Because I am with you, and if I were getting things done that would contradict the implication that I spent my afternoon ravishing you because of your irresistible charms. Charms which are so hidden that they need over an hour to excavate them.”</p>
<p>Her eyebrows furrowed with indignation, and she stuck her jaw out mulishly. </p>
<p>A thought occurred to him and he straightened. “You are not actually intending to work the whole time I’m here, are you?”</p>
<p>She looked confused. “Of course I’m going to work. It’s the middle of the workday.”</p>
<p>Draco stared at her for several seconds. After all the effort he’d taken, she was just going to ruin it all for a silly little thing like working. “Yes…” he said slowly, “but we’re supposed to be having dalliances all over the Ministry. Spend a minute cogitating over this; do you not think that continuing to produce the workload of five people might contradict that narrative somewhat?”</p>
<p>She clearly hadn’t considered it. She looked down at the scrolls on her desk and then back up at Draco, her eyes wide. “But this...this is important.”</p>
<p>Draco’s chest unexpectedly constricted, and he was suddenly overcome by a desire to bite down on the back of his knuckles as she sat there innocently blinking at him with her oversized doe eyes, surrounded by such leaning towers of legislation that it made the mess of event correspondence covering Draco’s desk back in Magical Sports look like restrained asceticism. </p>
<p>He shifted in his seat, balancing his elbows on his knees and interlacing his fingers. “I’m sure everything you do is, but it still contradicts our narrative.” </p>
<p>She looked unconvinced. </p>
<p>“Besides,” he said, mentally scrambling for another reason for her to put down her quill, as apparently his presence was not going to cut it, “if you ease off on your workload for the next week or so, then they might notice how much you do. Perhaps, give you a raise or a nice pat on the back – which I’m sure will also satisfy you – in order to try to convince you to resume running yourself into the ground.”</p>
<p>“Or I could get fired.”</p>
<p>Draco gave an audible snort. “You’ve been the top employee for four consecutive years. I highly doubt that’s going to occur.” </p>
<p>She looked down again and shuffled several papers around, apparently for no reason. </p>
<p>“Granger, the Ministry will not fall if you work an hour less today. Or –” he turned his head, glancing at her wall clock” – fifty-four minutes less. This is your idea, remember?”</p>
<p>She drew a deep breath and looked up. “Fine.” Her eyes darted over to the clock and her teeth caught her lower lip again, worrying it for a moment. “Forty-five minutes of no work.” Her throat dipped as she swallowed. “It’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>She folded her hands and then sat, eyes flicking back and forth between the clock and her desk, and looking like she was on the verge of either a panic attack or picking up her quill, ink and papers and rushing from the room, possibly to work in the secluded broom closet Draco had scouted on the fifth floor.  </p>
<p><em> Merlin </em>, he might have broken Granger. How would he live down the shame?  </p>
<p>He watched her for several seconds and then felt compelled to do something to distract her. He was known for his philanthropy and this seemed only a charitable act. </p>
<p>“It’s going… better, do you not agree?”</p>
<p>Her eyes snapped up. She looked uncharacteristically guilty, and he realised she’d been trying to surreptitiously read upside down. The minx. </p>
<p>He casually leaned over and snatched up the scroll, placing it on the other end of her desk, away from her prying, workaholic eyes.  </p>
<p>She made a little squeak, but kept mum on the subject of him confiscating her scroll. </p>
<p>“What is?” </p>
<p>He gestured between the two of them. “Us. Dating. Our colleagues. Friends. The delightful Mr. McCormac. Has he bothered you again, by the way?”</p>
<p>“No…” Her eyes were still glued longingly to her precious scroll. “Our departments don’t overlap in general. He hasn’t had much opportunity to go around making cow eyes at me now that you and I started having lunch together. Although,” she sighed, “I think Molly still has him seated with me for the reception, I’ll mention again that you and I are going to be at the wedding together, with even more emphasis on the ‘together’ detail.”</p>
<p>She sat up very straight, like a ruler had just been spello-taped to her back, and finally looked away from the scroll. “I’m surprised the Social Snitcher took the bait so quickly. I thought they’d be more skeptical or at least vet the sources a bit longer.”</p>
<p>“You overestimate them. I can say for certain that their fact-checking is rather woolly. Why they missed off all the funds I have in the Cayme –” </p>
<p>Her head snapped up. “The what?”</p>
<p>“Nothing, my dear.” Draco tried to look busy. Which was difficult as he was lounging in a chair with nothing in front of him. “However, I will say, we seem to have them convinced. They must have some source within the Ministry, but not one who is too close to us personally.”</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes. “I miss the days when <em> Witch Weekly </em> was actually a weekly magazine, and didn’t have all these vapid little news blasts all week long.”</p>
<p>“Oh how the wheels of progress turn.”</p>
<p>She scrunched her nose, looking disdainful at the notion. “I just want to know who’s sending all this information out. They must have several people in the Ministry, and unfortunately now with the mandatory lunches, it could be practically anyone.”</p>
<p>“It could be Mrs Bungsley-Terpinton,” Draco said, raising his eyebrows. </p>
<p>Granger gave him a piercing look. “You have a fixation with that woman; is there something I should know?” </p>
<p>“She amuses me, and I don’t know what her job is.” </p>
<p>Granger looked like she was about to disagree. He knew that look as he saw it on an hourly basis, actually sometimes several times an hour. But she seemed to change her mind. </p>
<p>She quizzically frowned. “That’s true. I’m not sure what she does at the Ministry, or even what department she works for.”</p>
<p>“That is <em> very </em> suspicious.”</p>
<p>“Is it?”</p>
<p>“The fact that you don’t know,” Draco said, solemnly, “is very telling, as you know everything.”</p>
<p>Colour fluttered into her cheeks, appearing like the first crocus flowers in spring.</p>
<p>Her eyes dropped down to her desk, and she seemed to hesitate a moment before looking back up, eyes bright. “You know, we were both right in the end.”</p>
<p>Draco gave her a dubious look at the notion that the two of them could simultaneously be right about things. </p>
<p>“About us. I was right that we could convincingly fake a relationship, and you were right that we’d have to make it salacious, so in the end, we were both right.”</p>
<p>He blinked at her. “Did you just admit that I was right?”</p>
<p>“Don’t get used to it.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t dream of it. But I do need to take a moment to mentally process this.”</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes, but her expression was more triumphant than irate. “Keep in mind that you only got to be right about that because I was right too. And I was right first.”</p>
<p>“No.” Draco let his eyes slide closed and he smiled. “Don’t ruin this moment for me.”</p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p></p><div class="letter">
  <p>
    
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> The now infamous incident of the glove is the first in a long line of theatrical romantic trysts for the newly announced couple.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> There have been extended meetings between The Department of Sports and The Department of Magical Creatures. Working lunches where the work seems to get entirely forgotten. And sidelong glances in the halls of the Ministry of Magic. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> Perhaps the most sordid story of this week, however, is the incident which occurred the day before yesterday on the fifth floor of the Ministry.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> Barry Manalow, a janitor of twenty years at the Ministry, was startled out of his wits on stumbling upon a couple of Ministry employees in a broom closet.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> It was not until Draco Malfoy’s very familiar pointed chin stuck out, that Mr Manalow realised just who was canoodling in his closet.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> There has never been such a steamy and salacious week at the Ministry, the critics are all wondering if this means Mr Malfoy may announce the new lady of the manor.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>— February 2009, <strong>The Social Snitcher</strong>, in <strong> <em>Witch Weekly</em> </strong></p>
</div><hr/>
<p>“Could you –” Hermione’s heart was threatening to pound out of her chest. Malfoy's hand was heavy on her hip, pinning her to the wall as he crowded close, his larger frame practically enveloping her. She inhaled raggedly.  “– give me a little more space? This – this is claustrophobic.”</p>
<p>His breath burned against her neck. “Even with my seduction prowess, I cannot very well pretend to kiss your throat from a far away distance.” </p>
<p>Her mouth went dry. “Fine.”</p>
<p>He shifted, the weight of his body almost maddening against her. A hand sliding down her arm. He’d already tugged her shirt up so that it came untucked on one side, and she’d loosened his tie while they were waiting for someone to come around the corner and 'catch' them. </p>
<p>“Where are they?” Her toes were beginning to cramp. She really should have chosen a shorter man to fake a relationship with.</p>
<p>“They should be here any...second,” he said, whispering in triumph as finally there was a click of heels in the distance. </p>
<p>Draco immediately wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her practically up off the floor. Her stomach flipped as she fluttered her eyes closed. Trying to bring to mind the pose of two entwined lovers she’d once seen on the cover of a historical romantic novel, she tilted her head back and ran her fingers through his hair, tangling them at the base of his scalp as Blaise and Padma finally came around the corner. </p>
<p>“Careful with the hair, Granger,” he muttered, before breaking into a loud moan. </p>
<p>Dipping his head down, he groaned against her shoulder. Hermione practically vibrated in response, heat rushing through her like a tidal wave.</p>
<p>“This is a public hallway,” Padma said in a loud, irritated voice.</p>
<p>“Have you not noticed, Padma,” Blaise drawled, “that Draco and Hermione have a voyeuristic streak to go with their dominatrix one.”</p>
<p>Hermione and Draco dramatically sprang apart as they’d planned. Draco combed his fingers through his hair, while Hermione rapidly tucked her shirt back in.</p>
<p>“Now, Blaise,” Draco said, an easy smile alighting to his face, “anyone might say that you were jealous with all your grumbling.”</p>
<p>“I’m deliriously happy for you both,” Blaise said with false enthusiasm. “I just wish I didn’t have to see quite so much of your ecstacy.”  </p>
<p>“We were just discussing leprechaun accommodations for the match in Ireland,” Hermione said, avoiding everyone’s eyes and not even needing to pretend to be breathless. “Draco, perhaps a private meeting later today, to go over the specifics?”</p>
<p>“A private meeting,” Blaise threw Padma a look, and she giggled. “I’ve never known Draco to be so keen to have so many one-on-one meetings.”</p>
<p>“This is only because whenever I have a meeting with you,” Draco said, turning to Blaise, “I have to deal with your unfunny and acerbic comments for an hour.” </p>
<p>“Speaking of which, Draco, you have a meeting with me and the spellbinding Mr Fletcher this afternoon,” Blaise said. </p>
<p>“It must have slipped my mind.”</p>
<p>“I wonder why,” Blaise said in a sing-song voice.</p>
<p>“Hermione,” Draco said her name with such tenderness it was like he was caressing each syllable, “would you mind if we had our very vital meeting about the leprechaun accommodations later this afternoon?”</p>
<p>Hermione inhaled, still avoiding everyone’s eyes. “That’s fine. I’ll see you then.” </p>
<p>She walked straight to the restrooms and then stood at the taps for several minutes running her wrists under ice cold water.</p>
<p>She was happy single. Really truly, incandescently – well, incandescently was laying it on a bit thick – happy. Very happy.  She hadn’t been thinking about relationships or wanting one. Work and her books and her friendships had been more than enough. </p>
<p>Everything would have been just fine if that idiotic Social Snitcher hadn’t decided to fling her singleness into everyone’s face as if it were the greatest travesty known to man. Now she was stuck in a fake relationship with Draco, and it was becoming a nightmare. </p>
<p>Unfortunately, not for the reasons she’d assumed it would be. </p>
<p>She and Draco – Malfoy. When had she stopped thinking of him as Malfoy? She and Malfoy had always been entirely indifferent to each other’s regard and quite happy about it. There was a certain freedom in not caring at all about what a person thought of you. </p>
<p>Now, this fake relationship was upsetting the delicate balance of their mutual disdain to a degree that was growing rapidly unnerving.</p>
<p>It would be alright. She drew a deep breath and twisted the taps off, drying her hands. She’d be fine.</p>
<p>One more day 'liaising' about the Ministry and then she’d have the whole weekend to mentally shove Draco back into his proper place as a nuisance. </p><hr/>
<p>Her legs were loosely around his waist, one of her hands was in his hair and the other on the lapels of his jacket. Her pert backside – he’d been within enough proximity of her bum this week to know that it was pert – was perched on the edge of the desk. She was perfectly placed to be pushed down; her back on the desk, looking up at him with her large, doe eyes as her knees bent, settling on his shoulders as he knelt in front of –</p>
<p>“Get off my desk.” Blaise's voice was as serious as the grave and much more threatening. </p>
<p>“Oh fuck.” Draco’s head reluctantly surfaced from where it had been buried in Granger’s hair. Considering she had such a lot of it, he was surprised he hadn’t suffocated, but in fact her hair felt very soft as her curls tickled the end of his nose. </p>
<p>He looked wildly around as if shocked that Blaise had entered their joint office, where their two desks stood facing each other like neighbours with very differently architecturally planned houses at opposite ends of a square. </p>
<p>Draco’s desk was Georgian-like, and ornamented – or littered, as Blaise liked to put it – with paperwork and quills which were almost too pretty to write with. This was perhaps why he was pinning Granger to Blaise’s desk, which was as brutalistically clear and as modern as a building designed during the reign of Margaret Thatcher, and probably just as close to receiving a Grade II listing for cultural significance and ugliness.  </p>
<p>When he’d suggested this idea of desk sex, Granger had put her hands – and legs – on him with such alarming speed that his head was still reeling. Although she had taken the time to shift Blaise’s stack of letters, which looked like they’d been aligned with the help of a right-angled ruler. </p>
<p>As it turned out, she had strong thighs, which gripped the top of his legs with thought-provoking strength. Draco hadn’t expected her to be so open to the idea of desk sex. Of course, it was not technically desk sex, merely the<em> appearance </em> of desk sex. </p>
<p>It was only a blessing that she was wearing slacks and not a skirt. Blessing, not curse; that was important. It was a blessing that her inner thighs had been covered by the well-made material of a suit trouser and not – <em> not </em> – edgily exposed by the tops of thigh-high lace stockings. Hold ups which caused a little bunching right above the lace, so perfect for gripping or holding. Or <em> biting</em>. </p>
<p>“<em>Draco </em> –” the sentence Granger had been in the middle of breathily moaning abruptly broke off. Which was a good thing because the way her voice sounded saying his name had his mind dragged to the bottom of the licentious pool of depravity where he wondered what sound she actually would make if he <em>did</em> bite her inner thigh. </p>
<p> “Please <em> do </em> stop on my account,” Blaise said. </p>
<p>She stopped, pulling her head back and loosening her grip on his body as if she’d just been electrocuted. This was a good thing. A very good thing. Of course it was. Her shock also kept with their narrative that he and she had been so overthrown with their passions that they’d completely missed the intruder standing in the doorway. </p>
<p>She gave an entirely realistic little squeak as she spotted Blaise – The Intruder. </p>
<p>“What!” Draco said to Blaise. With his hands still on the curve of Hermione’s waist, he glanced up with feigned astonishment. “We had no idea this was your desk.”</p>
<p>Blaise’s expression did not change. The malice summered under the surface like an extended family reunion. “I repeat,” he said, ignoring Draco, “get off my desk.”</p>
<p>Draco’s hands begrudgingly detached from Granger’s person. He placed one hand on the space next to her knee and leaned, looking for all the world as if he owned the place. </p>
<p>“This isn’t my desk?” Draco looked down at the neat and tidy desk as if seeing it for the first time in his life. “Oh the horror.”</p>
<p>“Your desk has been opposite mine for as long as I am disinclined to recall; I’ve never been able to get rid of you.” Blaise rolled his eyes heavenwards as if praying for strength. “You are more than aware it’s my desk which you are fuc– <em> fornicating </em> on.”</p>
<p>“We hadn’t gotten to the <em> fornication</em>,” Draco grumbled. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, her mouth drawn down, seemingly more uncomfortable to have been trespassing on someone’s precious workspace rather than caught in an act of passion on it. “We got a little carried away.”</p>
<p>Draco beamed at her. Granger’s abilities to look bemused and surprised whilst also a little rumpled had greatly improved; he was glad to be such a positive influence on her. </p>
<p>“My desk,” Draco said in way of explanation, “is a little untidy.”</p>
<p>Blaise did not look impressed with said explanation, which Draco thought was very harsh as Blaise should really be happy that he was going out with someone imminently sensible like Granger and not, as Blaise put it, with another ‘vicious pufferfish’. </p>
<p>“With all the paperwork you don’t do,” Blaise said. </p>
<p>“I’m more of a hands-on worker,” Draco said with the assurance of the straight, white, upper-class male.</p>
<p>Blaise sent Hermione a knowing look. “I’m sure you would know more about that than me.”</p>
<p>She blushed. It was predictable and perfect for the role of woman in love and caught in a compromising position that she was playing. He couldn’t have directed her better. </p>
<p>“I was here to get Draco’s signature and…”</p>
<p>“I distracted her,” Draco finished. </p>
<p>“I don’t want to know,” Blaise said, looking like a beaten man. “Just get out, the pair of you.”</p>
<p>“But I work here!”</p>
<p>“I don’t care.” </p>
<p>“He’ll get over it,” Draco said in a stage-whisper as he shepherded her out of the office. “Blaise is just jealous of our love. And sex.”</p>
<p>“Get out or I will kill you.” The last part of Blaise’s threat was muffled as Draco shut the door behind them with a cheery wave. </p><hr/>
<p>Draco gave Granger’s personal assistant a wink as he passed his desk. </p>
<p>Brian gave Draco a baffled frown. </p>
<p>“Hermione?” Draco said, not bothering to knock. Surely people who know <em> all </em> the ins and outs of someone’s life didn’t need to knock. </p>
<p>Hermione’s head snapped up at him with such speed that he swore she seemed to blur. “What are you doing in here?”</p>
<p>Draco draped himself in the chair opposite her desk. “Talking to you.”</p>
<p>She looked away as though trying to avoid his eyes, gesturing at her desk which was covered in memos. “This may be news for you, but when people are in their office with the door closed, it is supposed to be because they are working.”</p>
<p>He gave her a quizzical frown, not dissimilar to Brian’s. “Where’s the fun in that?” Without waiting for her to respond, he continued, “There is an event tomorrow evening.”</p>
<p>“You’ve mentioned it. And?” She snatched up a stack of papers and started slipping them into file drawers.</p>
<p>“Well, it’s this big Quidditch press release. Quite a big deal in the department, bit of a black-tie event; champagne, canapes, and those little chunks of cheese on sticks…” he trailed off. </p>
<p>Was she deliberately being obtuse, or was she just making him sweat?  </p>
<p>And he was, sweating that is. This was a disconcerting change of events. He’d never perspired in the presence of Granger before. </p>
<p>He’d scowled a lot, thrown her a lot of derisive glares over the years. She’d made his pulse quicken during many a heated debate, and now, he’d often found himself with a slightly giddy feeling in his chest when he pressed himself close to her, the warmth of her emitting like the embers of a fire, and whispered into her ear. Usually animal facts, because he had an abundance of those. But...what would it be like to whisper in her ear as a lover, rather than as the appearance of one. </p>
<p>He felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth at the thought. She’d probably correct his syntax in the middle of verbal foreplay. </p>
<p>She had almost disappeared behind her desk, sunk so low in her chair that the piles of parchment and paperwork on her desk were like a cityscape; he wasn’t sure if she was even listening.</p>
<p>“Would you,” he said, bowing to the inevitable, “like to go with me?”</p>
<p>She suddenly straightened, popping up from behind her desk like a gopher from its hole. “<em>This </em> weekend?”</p>
<p>Draco nodded, solemnly. He felt like he was passing a prison sentence and not simply asking an old enemy to a party as his fake date. </p>
<p>“To – a Quidditch event?” She asked the question with the same horror that other people would say ‘What is that noise coming from the basement?’. </p>
<p>Draco nodded again. It was unlike him to not have something to say. Often the problem with him was that he had too much to say. </p>
<p>Granger seemed to like silences, and he strangely enjoyed them with her. It was the lack of expectation, if he were to speculate. She wanted very little from him, and never placed any pressure on him to deliver. He’d gotten used to her comfortable silence; she was like a library, silent but active. </p>
<p>However, this silence was not comfortable. It was distinctly uncomfortable, and it threw him like an injury in the last few minutes of a Quidditch match when the Snitch was in sight. </p>
<p>Did she not want to be seen with him? Was she regretting their arrangement? It seemed silly that she would now not want to be seen with him as the purpose of this ruse was to go to a very publicised and large wedding together, but maybe it was different when they were fooling around in the Ministry corridors. </p>
<p>It was unnerving how she could sit there, suddenly staring at him with her mouth flatlining quicker than a triple-heart bypass patient. </p>
<p>“You don’t have to –” he said, stumbling over his words like a thirteen year old boy. But he had been a thirteen year old boy with her, and never once had he struggled to find words as much as he was doing now. “– but as we’re meant to be dating, this might be a good opportunity to show off.”</p>
<p>His pulse was going so fast that he was beginning to empathise with that cardiac patient. </p>
<p>She seemed to freeze for an instant, then her eyes dropped down to her desk, and she nodded without looking up at him. The memos still clutched in her hand crumpled in her fingers.</p>
<p>“Right,” she said slowly. “It would be expected… for me to be there.”</p>
<p>Draco nodded, heart rate steadying with unexpected relief. “Plus I always have a date for these events.”</p>
<p>She just nodded again, but her expression didn’t change. She seemed strangely stifled. “Just give me the details and I’ll be there.”</p>
<p>There was another silence. This one felt frosty. As if he’d stepped outside and hadn’t realised that it had frozen overnight, and now the path was littered with patches of black ice just waiting to trip him up. </p>
<p>Honestly, this was ridiculous. No one had made him feel so off-balance since his mother.</p>
<p>“I’ll just be going,” he said. He got up, smoothing his robes as he stood, feeling stiflingly formal. He slid the scroll he’d placed out of her line of vision back in front of her. </p>
<p>She visibly unbent. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>“I shall see you anon, Granger.” </p>
<p>He wasn’t going to look back as he went to walk out of her office, that was until she called to him. </p>
<p>“Malfoy?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Draco said, turning instantly to face her again because it was only polite to give a fake girlfriend his full attention, “my song?”</p>
<p>She winced; it could have been at him, it could have been at the nickname. “Can you stop winking at my personal assistant everytime you come to my office? He’s finding it off-putting.”</p>
<p>“What?” Draco feigned shock, hurt, and all other emotions he’d heard people felt when they were being rejected. “But I thought we had a connection?”</p>
<p>“Brian doesn’t feel the same way.”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe you; not my Brian.”</p>
<p>Hermione's mouth pursed into a disapproving but irrepressible smile. “I have two words for you: ‘sexual’ and ‘misconduct’.”</p>
<p><em> Maybe, </em> just maybe, they could be friends. Even if she was terrifying.</p>
<p>He left her office smiling. Like the cat who had got the cream, or a man who’d possibly shagged his girlfriend on her desk. Either way, both worked for his facade. </p>
<p>He made sure to wink at Brian again on his way out. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A gentle reminder: this is an explorative work created in collaboration between two writers, both with distinctive personal styles. The writing, plotting, and development are equally shared in this co-authored work. We would like to draw to everyone's attention that when referring to the author, that both authors be acknowledged and addressed.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Wardin’ In The Rain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p></p><div class="letter">
  <p>
    
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Nothing quite like wizards and their balls. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Tonight is the night of the biggest Quidditch event of the year. Apart from the World Cup. And the National Tournament. And the Firebolt’s annual awards ceremony. And Hogwarts’ House Championships. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>So, to clarify, tonight is the night of one of the mid-sized Quidditch events of the year: The Quidditch Personality Awards. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Who knew that Quidditch players had personalities? </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>All of the big names in British Quidditch will be there as well as many of the socialites from wizarding London, including our own number one eligible bachelor, Draco Malfoy.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Last year, Mr Malfoy was accompanied to this event by none other than Swedish Quidditch champion, Elka Michaelson, who was nominated for Female Quidditch Player of the year. A week later, Mr Malfoy and Miss Michaelson ended their brief affair when Miss Michaelson threatened to ice Mr Malfoy’s ‘Snitch' off. This author is unsure of exactly what Mr Malfoy had done to deserve such a frosty send-off, but as he was seen with magical entertainer, Valentina Verdi, later that evening, we can only speculate. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Hopefully, Miss Granger will have more luck than Miss Michaelson, or Miss Verdi, or –</em>
  </p>
</div><p> </p><p>Hermione set down the latest Social Snitcher without finishing it. She closed her eyes, releasing a slow breath before reopening them. Her fingers ran down the fabric of her dress as she resumed critically studying her reflection in the mirror. </p><p>She was wearing the dress she always wore to balls that she didn’t want to go to. It was a navy that was almost black, with little gold button details. High-necked, fitted sleeves to the elbows. She’d been thrilled the day she’d found it in Twillfit and Tattings. Classic. Not too formal but when paired with evening gloves it was effortless and elegant. </p><p>Ron had hated it. </p><p>It was dull, he’d said. Barely any colour. Buttons up to her throat. Not the kind of dress that made a man feel anything.</p><p>In response, it had become the only dress Hermione ever wore to events that she hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place. Her Spite Dress, she called it. She wore it for herself and no one else, and didn’t care that it had never been avant-garde enough to earn a photograph in Witch Weekly. In fact, she’d enjoyed the knowledge that wearing the same dress to every single event made the pictures of her practically useless. </p><p>The same dress, the same shoes, the same twisted updo kept in place with a generous amount of Sleekeazy’s potion. It was like stepping seven years into the past.</p><p>The mere thought had her stomach churning.</p><p>She was not looking forward to the evening at all. There was not a single ball that she had ever attended that she had managed to enjoy the whole way through. There was something about Hermione and the nature of balls that meant that they inevitably derailed each other. </p><p>After the last week, the last thing she’d wanted was to spend even more time with Malfoy. She’d been looking forward to having the weekend to herself, to find some distance from the last few days. Really, it wasn't the days themselves so much as it was Malfoy himself. </p><p>It had been a long time since Hermione'd been in anything that could qualify as a relationship, and suddenly having her personal space relentlessly invaded was beginning to cause her a minor internal crisis. </p><p>It had been alright at first. Well – not exactly alright, but not so terrible. Even if she did have the occasional physiological response to Malfoy’s relentless proximity, that was natural and to be expected, and nothing she couldn’t reason her way out of afterwards in the bathroom with cold water running over her wrists. </p><p>However, in the last two days, Malfoy had stopped acting quite so much like everything was an act. Initially when he touched her, his immediate impulse had been to look around and see who’d noticed. He’d step away the second their performance was over. Now his hands lingered just a split-second longer than necessary. His eyes came back to her in a way that was a departure from all the years she’d spent beneath his notice.</p><p>It wasn’t interest. She wasn’t delusional enough to think Malfoy had any interest in her. It was more the inevitable result of being within constant proximity of a libertine who was going through serial-dating withdrawal. By virtue of being the only current option, Malfoy had noticed her.</p><p>Under normal circumstances it would be ironic. Laughable even. </p><p>Unfortunately, the circumstances were far from normal. Perhaps Hermione had been single too long because she felt that she might have forgotten about just how physical relationships were, the amount of touching and proximity that was necessary to convincingly feign one. She didn’t remember there being quite so much tension as any point with Ron except when they were yelling at each other, and that really hadn’t been the same thing.</p><p>When the work day was done and she’d finally escaped Malfoy, she’d get home feeling like a tuning fork, vibrating all the way to her fingertips. </p><p>She couldn’t even unfasten buttons on her clothes without her mind running off into recollections of Malfoy’s teeth flashing, and the feeling of his hand heavy and wrapping faux-possessively against her waist. About the particular cadence when he’d breathe, his lips centimetres from her skin, and the hardness of his chest against her back when he’d come up behind her and softly whisper some utterly inane animal fact.</p><p>Hermione had never been sexually repressed, despite what anyone wanted to believe about why she’d been single for so many years. She had an array of methods for enjoying her sexuality and no sense of inhibition about using them. </p><p>Currently, however, she was not enjoying her sexuality because every time she tried to, she’d begin thinking about Malfoy’s hands, and teeth and tongue, the way his eyes gleamed when they met hers, and what the weight of his body might feel like, and she did <em> not </em>want to think about Malfoy when she was enjoying her sexuality. </p><p>He was an absolute tosser, and even fantasy versions of him had no business whatsoever in her bedroom. </p><p>She’d found herself forced to take up calming, meditative breathing exercises instead. Unfortunately, they were not actually helping very much. </p><p>Now, because of a Quidditch Ball, a combination of two things she hated most in the world, she’d been forced to give up half her weekend to Malfoy. The only silver lining was that her current sense of aggravation about it was having a dampening effect upon her libido. </p><p>She shot one last, irritated look at her reflection and turned away. </p><p>Hopefully, it would be the same routine that most Balls were. She’d arrive with Malfoy, they’d be photographed, they’d mingle together briefly, and then he’d be called away by friends and forget she was even there.</p><p>Then she could leave. </p><p>She just hoped there wouldn’t be too much mingling. With luck, she’d be home again within an hour or two and would still have time to –</p><p>“Granger!”</p><p>Malfoy suddenly popped into existence next to her.</p><p>She stifled a scream, nearly jumping out of her skin, and whacked her hand on the bedroom door knob she’d been reaching for.  </p><p>Malfoy had apparated into her bedroom, soaking wet and grinning like a loon.</p><p>‘Grinning’ was possibly not the right word. He was giving her a lopsided smile, his slightly sheepish expression hidden behind hair which was plastered to his forehead.  </p><p>He looked like a drowned pomeranian. </p><p>She pressed a hand against her chest over her pounding heart, feeling like some sort of pearl-clutching matron. Nothing in her life, not even the last week, had prepared her for the unexpected shock of a drenched Malfoy materializing beside her bed. </p><p>She’d taken the wards down so he could apparate into the foyer like a normal person. </p><p>“What are you doing in my house? How did you even know where my bedroom was?”</p><p>“Do you have a towel?” He shook his head, spraying her with water droplets.</p><p>“No, I don’t have a towel.”</p><p>“What?” he said, mid-shake, looking shocked. “You don’t have a spare towel in your whole house? I know the Ministry’s salaries are utter rubbish, but that’s just criminal that you can’t afford another set of towels –”</p><p>“No,” Hermione quickly said. Taking a deep breath, she tried to remind herself that the minimum sentence in Azkaban for murder was life. “I don’t want to give you a towel.”</p><p>“Oh. I suppose I'll just drip all over your lovely carpet then.”</p><p>“Or you could leave. You’re not supposed to be here for another half hour.”</p><p>“I need you.”</p><p>Another breath. Maybe she should count to ten. “Why?”</p><p>“I promised Blaise that I wouldn’t return until I got you.”</p><p>Counting it was. <em> One, two, three </em> –</p><p>She gritted her teeth. “You’re here because Blaise sent you?”</p><p><em> Four, five, six </em> –</p><p>“Because we desperately need your help.”</p><p>Was there a great big flashing sign attached to her somewhere that read: ‘idiot men in need of assistance, apply here for immediate aid’? </p><p><em> Seven, eight, nine </em> –</p><p>Her jaw began to ache. “What do you need <em> my </em> help with?” </p><p>“The rain.”</p><p>There was a pause, and Hermione forgot to keep counting as she absorbed the word. </p><p>She drew a deep breath and stared at him. “Event planning is practically your entire job,” she said, enunciating each word carefully in order to ensure that she wasn’t misunderstanding somewhere.</p><p>He just stared innocently back, still looking like a half-drowned puppy. </p><p>She blinked at him. “Did you somehow not account for rain when planning an event in February?”</p><p>Draco stood dripping onto her carpet, apparently determined not to remember that he had a wand and was capable of casting drying charms upon himself. Perhaps he thought he looked debonair as he stood in her bedroom, dressed in a tux but looking as if he’d gone swimming in it. </p><p>“Ah, well you see,” he said, somehow still oozing confidence as if there was an incredibly compelling excuse and he’d only been saving it up as a surprise. Hermione could feel a headache coming on.“This year we were strongly advised to hold the Four Balls Ball in a Muggle venue. Blaise found this arena; lovely structure, perfectly accessible –”</p><p>Hermione stood waiting for the very large “but” on the far end of the venue description. </p><p>Draco held up a finger like a quotation mark. “– but, what I did not appreciate is that Muggle stadiums are often, unfortunately...roofless. I assumed, and in retrospect I do see my error, that it was an illusion spell like the ceiling in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but it’s not. The stadium is in fact entirely roofless.” </p><p>He gestured demonstratively to indication the vast extent of the rooflessness. </p><p>“We have water-repelling charms on all the tables and decorations for the moment, but the guests will be arriving shortly and as it would happen, I’ve never waterproofed an entire stadium before, and it is somewhat trickier than I realised. Held for about ten minutes before breaking, and then there was a smallish – well, medium-sized  – flood.” He raised both his soaking arms and did a small turn, modeling downpour chic; raindrops falling from his fingertips. “And well, you see me now.”</p><p>“So you thought of me?” Hermione wasn’t sure whether to feel baffled or flattered by this. There was a literal puddle forming on her carpet, so she sighed in defeat and summoned a towel from her bathroom, flinging it at his head.</p><p>He caught it with a dexterity which only a Seeker would have. </p><p>“Thank you,” he said, placing the towel over his head and rubbing furiously. After a minute, when he lowered the towel, his hair was spiked up like he’d been electrocuted.</p><p>It was… strangely endearing. Oh god. The last thing she needed was to find Malfoy attractive in this particular instance. If she was going to be attracted to him at all, she could at least have some degree of standards about it.</p><p>She gave a resigned sigh and felt herself relenting. After all her years of scolding Harry about his “saving people thing,” she suspected she might have an equally bad case of it. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”</p><hr/><p>They stood side by side outside Wembley Stadium, sheltering under her umbrellas, and Hermione almost swore. How did he ever expect to charm an entire arena in less than half an hour?</p><p>“Wembley,” she said, turning to Draco who was standing under her spare umbrella – what self-possessing English person didn’t have more than one umbrella? “Why Wembley stadium of all places?”</p><p>He patted his hair again. It was still damp, and while he’d spent a minute in her bathroom restyling it, he hadn’t managed to achieve his usually perfect quiff. </p><p>There was a brief pause, and he raised an eyebrow as if needing a moment to formulate the explanation.</p><p>“Well…” he finally started, “for quite a few logical reasons, I can assure you. Firstly, many of the guests are international, and Wembley is such a central location. Secondly, more and more people are using Muggle modes of transport to avoid detection and dodgy Ministry fines. And finally, because there are few to none Wizarding venues which offer the space of a Quidditch pitch which isn’t a muddy field in the middle of the remote British countryside.”</p><p>Hermione turned to stare piercingly at him. “And you didn’t notice that it was roofless?” </p><p>There was a pause which was only broken by the sound of the rain falling on their umbrellas and then splashing onto the pavement around them. “I told you, I assumed it was an illusion. Besides, it was sunny when I was last here.”</p><p>Hermione plastered a smile on her face. “When was that?”</p><p>Draco cleared his throat. “August last year.”</p><p>“What month is it now?” she said, her tone as sweet as a spoonful of sugar. She hoped she gave him toothache; they'd match.</p><p>“February.” He pulled at the knot of his bow-tie. “Alright, Granger, I get the point. I was stupid.”</p><p>Hermione drew a deep breath, trying to estimate the dimensions of the stadium and the quantity of rain currently falling from the open sky. It was pouring. One of the most relentless downpours she’d seen in years. “Isn’t there a – Ministry branch or contractor that usually does this for you?”</p><p>Draco sighed. “Yes, generally, unfortunately their offices are all closed now and even if they weren’t, they usually need at least a day…”</p><p>She scrunched her nose at him. “So you thought, ‘Hermione, who works in a legal department, can ward the whole thing for me in thirty minutes’?”</p><p>He looked at her, appearing surprised by the question. “Can’t you?”</p><p>Hermione turned away, staring up at the building. “You’re going to really owe me after this, I hope you realise that.”</p><hr/><p>“Draco, tell your girlfriend that she’s amazing,” Blaise said, poking Malfoy in the arm with the tip of his wand. </p><p>He poked him back. “Tell her yourself.”</p><p>Blaise turned to her, and with a tone of rare sincerity said, “You’re amazing.”</p><p>“He’s right,” Malfoy said, nodding. He stepped back, tilting his chin as if admiring the dry stadium like an oil painting.</p><p>Warding all of Wembley Stadium was not as difficult as Hermione feared. It just needed considerably more than one person to accomplish it and apparently Draco had never acquainted himself with the basics of ward multiplicity. Once Hermione had worked out the arithmancy and verified the exact dimensions of the stadium, she only needed to recruit a few caterers and waiters to help alongside the assortment of interns and assistants and other useless individuals with jobs in Magical Sports, in addition to Draco and Blaise themselves. Then wards were up and the rain was out in short order. </p><p>Hermione spent several minutes at a dizzyingly nauseating height, testing the barrier, reinforcing it, and reassuring herself that it would not unexpectedly explode and drown the international Quidditch community. </p><p>“I think it’ll hold,” she finally said, dropping her arm which was beginning to ache from being held overhead. She was uncomfortably damp everywhere, and her hair was beginning to visibly expand. </p><p>“All we need is a few hours,” Blaise said, “and then if it breaks, it’ll be an effective way of getting everyone to leave the building.”</p><p>“You have a hidden sadistic streak, don’t you, mate” Draco said, his mouth turning up at the corners. He raised his wand and flourished it. “Towel, anyone?” </p><p>He held out a fluffy white bath towel to her. Hermione rolled her eyes at him as she accepted it, not missing the monogrammed MLD in gold script embroidered on the flannel. She tried to gingerly dab herself dry without smearing her makeup or making her hair frizz even more than it was already starting to. </p><p>It was a losing battle. She was probably going to need to go home to fix it all… or maybe just excuse herself and skip the evening. There wouldn’t be time to get ready all over again and not arrive unfashionably late. It would be the perfect way to get out of the ball. Draco could give her ‘regrets’ and explain that she would be there if she could.</p><p>It would be infinitely preferable to being apologetically dragged around while he gave excuses to people about her appearance.</p><p>She could already see the mocking lines in tomorrow’s Social Snitcher about Muggle-borns in Muggle venues, or speculation about what talents she must possess for Malfoy to be willingly seen in public with her when she looked like a vagrant. The mere thought had her slightly nauseous.</p><p>She started handing the towel back. “I don’t think I’ll be able to put myself back together in time. I should head home.”</p><p>Malfoy jerked back as if being attacked, refusing to accept the towel. “Nonsense. Absolutely not. You saved the night, you’re the star of the evening. Just don’t tell any of the nominees that; their egos are going to be difficult enough to fit in this stadium as it is.”</p><p>Hermione held the towel out even further. “That’s really not necessary, I –”</p><p>He pulled another towel out of thin air, and then several more, followed with a sundry of items that could have been implements of torture. </p><p>“Out of the question. You’ve done your world-saving – ” He paused, eyebrows furrowing. “Venue-saving?” </p><p>He waved a hand. “Same thing, really. World-saving trick, now it is my turn to be somewhat useful.” He took her by the shoulders and herded her away from Blaise and over into better lighting. “A novelty, as I am sure you are both aware.”</p><p>“I’m going to leave you two alone,” Blaise said, snatching one of the towels and heading for one of the exits. “Get myself out of any incurring crossfire.”</p><p>Hermione raised her eyebrows and her chin at Malfoy as he stared at her appraisingly as though planning an incursion on foreign soil. </p><p>“So you can conjure towels,” she finally said when she thought he had stared quite enough.</p><p>He sprang back to life. “You see, I was saving them,” he said, wrapped a new towel around his shoulders. “For a rainy day.”</p><p>He muttered a few spells, and her dress was suddenly dry and no longer chafing damp against her skin. Another murmured spell and the wrinkles vanished. He reached out, fingers running through her hair and slipped all the pins out, pocketing them.</p><p>A towel dropped on her head, Draco had draped it over her like a hood and was gingerly pressing down at it. “I should just go. Malfoy, honestly, I don’t even –”</p><p>“You saved my night, and now I am going to save yours. You may be able to ward an entire stadium, but I have emergency hairpins.” He pulled a card of them out of an inner tuxedo pocket and showed them off. “Don’t underestimate me.”</p><p>“Fine.” </p><p>“Good. Now, in my many years of dating experience, I haven’t often dried curls; is there a technique you like?”</p><p>He asked that question now. </p><p>Hermione grimaced. “It’s probably beyond salvaging.”</p><p>“No, no,” he said, “where would this evening be if you’d taken this defeatist attitude half an hour ago. My party would be underwater.” He turned the towel upwards, scrunching her hair from the bottom up. Then he paused, staring at her with an expression she couldn’t place. The sort of expression that people wore when looking at a piece of art they didn’t understand. His head cocked to the side as if there was something he was expecting to find but couldn’t see. Then he blinked, and the moment was gone.</p><p>“I really am eternally grateful.”</p><p>“It really wasn’t anything.”</p><p>Draco snorted, and it was strange hearing such an undignified sound come out of such a perfectly sloped nose. “Only you would say that waterproofing the largest stadium in the United Kingdom was nothing.”</p><p>The backs of his knuckles brushed the side of her neck, and Hermione found herself blushing as her stomach started to perform an unsolicited somersault. Then her brain caught up.</p><p>“The largest stadium in the UK?” She echoed before her tone grew pointed. “Would that happen to be the actual reason you chose Wembley?”</p><p>There was an abashed silence. </p><p>“Size matters. I have been told this on fairly good authority.”</p><p>Hermione tilted her head back to glare at him, and discovered that his face was considerably closer to hers than she had expected and he was studying her again, his eyes locked on her face, eyebrows furrowed as though confronted with a puzzle he couldn’t work out.</p><p>His hand was curved around the base of her neck, his fingers straying under the towel and into her hairline, and she wasn’t sure whether he was actually paying any attention to what he was doing because he was looking very carefully at her. His eyes tracing very slowly over her features as if memorizing them.</p><p>Now that she wasn’t uncomfortably damp, she was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm. “Is there something on my face?”</p><p>He almost seemed to start. “What? No, I’m just contemplating the mysterious nature of your hair.”</p><p>He turned her around hurriedly and pulled the towel away. Then there was another muttered spell that she didn’t recognize, and her hair stopped expanding outwards and settled somewhat. His fingers laced through her curls in a way that sent a shiver down her spine as he started doing something with the hairpins.</p><p>After several minutes of twisting and tugging,  he turned her back, catching an escaping curl near her temple and wrapping it around his finger so that it coiled properly. He straightened and looked her up and down “There you are, Granger.” </p><p>He slipped his hand free and stepped back to appraise her with a critical air. “I am afraid your curls do have me at a slight disadvantage, much as their owner often does. They’re still closer to their former glory than that tragic state of captivity you managed earlier this evening. Don’t tell anyone, but I have always been rather partial to the incorrigible nature of your hair. Without it, it hardly feels like it’s Granger.”</p><p>His eyes travelled down from her hair to her dress and all the way to her shoes and then back up again. Her heart stuttered and she waited for that resigned expression that Ron always used to get over her clothing preferences. </p><p>Her jaw tensed as his eyes returned to her face and he stood studying her.</p><p>“It slipped my mind earlier,” he said, his eyelashes touching the tops of his cheekbones for a moment before looking back up, “I meant to tell you when I arrived at your flat, you look devastating tonight. Navy suits you.”</p><p>Hermione laughed.</p><p>She didn’t mean to. It was one of those forcible, awkwardly social laughs that she barely had time to register before it had escaped. She hadn’t been expecting any compliments whatsoever on her wardrobe tonight, especially not after spending half an hour wearing it through a downpour. </p><p>However, it was all the more disconcerting because Draco’s words didn’t feel insincere, as if he was only saying them because it was obligatory to say at least one nice thing to her after she saved his party. She knew what he sounded like when he was being insincere. </p><p>Then again, if there was anything the last week had taught her, it was that he was also capable of seeming entirely sincere when he wasn’t.</p><p>She forced a smile up at him. “Right.”</p><p>His eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowing. He looked genuinely annoyed. The frown reached the corners of his eyes, pinching them in a way which was reflected in his voice as he said softly, “Hermione –” </p><p>“Malfoy!” Blaise shouted from the other side of the pitch. “The entertainment is here. They want to know where to set up.”</p><p>Hermione started and Draco’s head snapped up so quickly that it looked like he’d been pulled on a fishing line. He blinked a couple of times, as if getting his eyes into focus, and then quickly stepped back. The towel dropped from his hand, falling to the ground. </p><p>“The entertainment,” he repeated, as if he’d misheard the first time, which was impossible as Hermione was sure half of London must have heard Blaise’s yell. </p><p>“They’re an acrobatic troupe from Budapest, who perform on broomstick,” Draco said, gesturing over his shoulder. “I should...go and see to them.”</p><p>He turned on his heel and practically bolted across the pitch.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Some Like It Freezing On A February Evening</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her hair smelled like strawberries. Draco wished he didn’t know this fact. He would have preferred going the rest of his life not knowing that Hermione Granger’s hair smelled of strawberries and Devonshire cream and summer-time desserts, and that when he pressed the palm of his hand into a precise spot at the base of her neck, her lips parted as if she was actually sucking the cream off a strawberry. </p><p>Her lips were tinted red and deliciously open, a little sigh escaping her mouth as he’d idly massaged her head, his fingers buried deep into the soft chocolate curls. He was forced to turn her around and start pinning her hair back in order to stop the lascivious thoughts about just how simple it would be to close his hands around her curls, lightly tugging at her hair and making her gasp in an entirely different fashion. </p><p>What was wrong with him? </p><p>Well, according to most people he was acquainted with, apparently, many, many things. But mentally exploring the tempting and dubiously explicit fantasies involving Hermione Granger – who barely tolerated him, by the way – was not going to be one of them. At least not when he was in the midst of hosting an event.</p><p>Quite simply, Draco could not wrap his mind entirely around Granger, and that fact disturbed him to his very shallow and mercantile core. </p><p>People, in his not-so-humble opinion, became simpler upon close inspection; their motivations and desires often simmering down to one or two things, generally involving his money. </p><p>Granger, on the other hand, was holding more mysteries for him than a quantum mechanics formula, and far more charms. Each time he had a conversation with her, or glanced at her from the corner of his eye, she seemed to increase in variables at an infinite rate until he could do nothing but question whether he’d ever actually known her at all. </p><p>As long as he’d known her, she’d been a harridan. She’d simply swapped out her school uniform for a suit jacket, but her aim in regards to him appeared to be the same: make his life as needlessly complicated as she possibly could. Apparently that aim had not changed, only it wasn’t just his job that she was over-complicating but his personal life too. Better add his sanity to that. And the added bonus of his libido. </p><p>Hermione Granger was complicating his libido. Oh he’d never live it down...if everyone didn’t already think that he was irrevocably in love with her. </p><p>He’d assumed she was incapable of being interesting. Or funny. Or strangely sexy when she let go of all her rigid self-control and briefly surrendered to the joy of feeling. Such as, feeling his hands in her hair and his fingers massaging her temple. </p><p>After this week of hearing her breathy imitations of a sensual moan, he was now able to recognise the real mccoy. It was splendid, and it was going to ruin him. </p><p>Hermione Granger of The Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures had been compartmentalised in a nice little box in his head. This box had been relabeled from time to time, but the phrasing had always been along the same lines: DO NOT OPEN. HANDLE WITH CAUTION. CONTAINS LECTURES. </p><p>The things which emerged from Hermione Granger’s mouth were usually dull and important: another citation of a Ministry regulation, or something she’d read in a book, or a paraphrase of some ancient, forgotten and highly inconvenient law. But now, as it turned out, she also said funny, witty things which made him smirk, guffaw and occasionally chuckle. </p><p>She’d blasted that damned box to smithereens, like the exploding end of a Blast-Ended Skrewt, and refused to be categorised anywhere else. </p><p>The Ministry harridan was not supposed to smell like strawberries, or moan softly under her breath when his fingers tangled her hair, or have hips made to grab, or a waist that he could span with one fucking hand. </p><p>Her eyes were not supposed to light up, or dance with infectious excitement when she was scheming on how exactly they could meticulously fool their closest friends and colleagues and frankly, most of Europe’s wizarding world. </p><p>She was not supposed to be such a cunning Slytherin and siren song to his worst and deviant nature. She was supposed to be a Gryffindor and be boring, and blockish and a little too simple to be worth getting interested in. </p><p>She was not supposed to be, and yet she was. </p><p>Harridans, especially harridans Draco had known since the tender age of eleven, were not supposed to possess depths that he was incapable of plumbing. Or have the ability to fill his head – day and night, night and day – with thousands of little thoughts of the strawberry-scented shampoo, deep chocolate brown eyes, and oh-so-sensual blushes.</p><p>He was an adu… he was a grown-u… he was grown. </p><p>A grown professional – terrifying prospect, he knew – who was currently meant to be hosting a highly important event for his work. He needed to be focused. He needed to be professional. He needed to get Hermione Granger out of his damned head. He needed to be more like Granger – words to chill the heart of any man – and be attentive and committed to his work, regardless of personal feelings and worries. </p><p>He needed to see that the evening went as smoothly as a freshly serviced broom. He needed to charm and flatter and attend to his hundreds of guests. He needed… he needed to stop getting distracted and seeking out Granger every time there was a barest pause in conversation. </p><p>The captain of the Pittsburgh Porlocks, Mallory Mulvany, had looked ready to have him committed when he’d lost track of his conversation with her about her team’s aims for this season for the third time in a row. </p><p>His boss, the ever-alluring Hortence Fletcher, had actually asked him if he was ‘well’ when Draco missed his mouth and dripped champagne down his tux as he’d spied Weasley approaching Granger. Weasley apparently had the audacity – the sheer audacity – to ask her to dance when he was getting married in less than a fortnight to another woman! He must have balls the size of Quaffles. The git. </p><p>She-Potter had given him a very knowing look as he’d excused himself from Hortence’s charms and passed her on the way to the bathroom. She, like her brother, also seemed possessed of the same amount of audacity as an entire Quidditch team, as she’d grinned like a cat with a canary upon seeing his almost see-through shirt and grim aspect. </p><p>He was heartily tired of being damp this evening. </p><p>“Here,” Blaise said, sliding next to him without a sound. He held out a flute of champagne. There was a strawberry perched coquettishly on the side of the glass. “You look like you need it.”</p><p>“Do I?” Draco said, flippantly. </p><p>“I saw you spit out your drink like a five year old who’s had its favorite toy taken away when you saw champion Keeper Ronald Weasley ask our great saviour Hermione Granger to dance.”</p><p>Draco scowled at the strawberry. “I was just enraptured as to what Mallory Mulvany was saying.”</p><p>“You were talking to Hortense at the time, not Mallory Mulvany.”</p><p>Damn. </p><p>“It’s obvious,” Blaise said, sipping his own drink with far more suave casualness than was good for Draco’s vanity. “Accept your fate.” He paused, his eyes wandering to the sky. Or rather the bubble of magic which kept the sky from falling on their heads. </p><p>Her magic, with a little of Draco’s splashed in there for good measure. </p><p>“I have no idea what you are talking about.”</p><p>Blaise made a noise. “Of course you don’t.”</p><p>Draco was about to inquire as to what Blaise was babbling about, when said babbler interrupted: “Oh look, Victor Krum is approaching her.”</p><p>Draco dropped his glass this time. </p><hr/><p>“Malfoy what are we doing besides the bins?”</p><p>“I thought I heard someone say that there was a leak in the enchantment around here somewhere.” </p><p>“What were people doing around the bins?” </p><p>Draco deliberately paused and then raised a single, yet very suggestive, eyebrow. </p><p>“Oh! Well...I –” she stumbled over her words in a way which could be – by someone who was not him – described as adorable. </p><p>She reached into her bag and pulled her wand out, poking up into the air. Her eyebrows furrowed and she muttered something magical and intelligent under her breath. If it hadn't been recently raining, and if they hadn’t been beside some bins, then he would have leaned against the wall and watched her work.</p><p>She dropped her arm after several moments.  “I don’t see a leak, it might have just been moisture from earlier, before we warded it.”  </p><p>“That’s a shame,” Draco said in a ‘that’s not a shame’ tone of voice, “someone leading me on a wild niffler chase. Oh well, now we are here, we can have a breather from the crush in there.” He gave her a smile which he hoped was inviting rather than creepy. As he’d just slightly duped her into spending some alone time with him by the bins, perhaps this hope was in vain. </p><p>Then again, it was a necessary deceit. The woman was going to blow their cover if she started throwing cow-eyes at that Bulgarian idiot, who had been smiling at her like the sun shone from her very soul….which was ridiculous, because clearly it went without saying that Granger didn’t shine like the sun. Although with the excitement of earlier that evening, her face had taken on a healthy glow which could possibly be described as luminescent by some people. </p><p>Really, if a person thought about it, Draco was actually just being a great fake boyfriend and being incredibly helpful and practical by drawing his fake girlfriend away from a situation which could expose their relationship as fake and make them the subject of even more salacious gossip. </p><p>Helpful, practical Draco. </p><p>He should get a badge. A shiny one. Or even a trophy.</p><p>“It’s actually been rather fun tonight,” she said, shrugging a shoulder and putting her wand away. “I’ve enjoyed myself a lot more than I thought I would. I didn’t realise that Viktor would be here.”</p><p>She seemed to be moving towards the door. To go back to the party; back to Viktor. </p><p>“Wait!” Draco shouted. </p><p>Hermione jumped about a foot and stared at him as if he’d grown an extra head. “What? What is it?”</p><p>“Errr –” Had the world stopped turning, or had his own little section of reality which had him at the center just suddenly ground to a halt? </p><p>“Well,” he said, hesitantly at first before the words started tumbling out of him, “I don’t profess to notice many things, but I can certainly tell you don’t like balls, or parties, or big crowds of people.” </p><p>It was like he was in a barrel, rolling down a hill of words. “So I thought, as we’re out here already, we could stay out here for a bit, or a while, whatever works for you really.” </p><p>Someone stop him. Shove a boot in his mouth, or a wand up his arse – actually that last one might not help – just anything to steady the flow of rambling, consequential considerations. </p><p>“There is also the fact that you and I have been sneaking off for days, so it would make sense – keep to the narrative so to speak– if we also disappeared for a bit this evening. I know you’re not the type of person to throw off a work event for a paramour, but I am. It’s basically expected of me. Really, you’d be doing my reputation a favour –”</p><p>He stopped abruptly. Apparently there was something equivalent to a kick in the mouth or a wand up the posterior and it was Hermione Granger's laugh; clear as a bell and as light as a spring breeze. She’d tilted her head back and laughed, curls framing her like a halo. </p><p>Then she shook her head and stared at him. “Of course, heaven forbid you go a whole evening without a scandal.”</p><p>He let out a breath. He had realised he’d been holding it; who wouldn’t know if they’d been holding their own breath? Idiots. Breathing was a part of the autonomic nervous system, and he, like every other person in the world, had to make a conscious effort not to breathe. Nevertheless, this exhalation felt like a deflation; it was as if all the hot air he’d been speaking had zapped all the oxygen from his lungs and now, after her signaling laugh, he could breathe freely again. </p><p>“Ah dear Granger,” he said, slipping on the role of debonair, handsome, charming wizard like a finely tailored coat, “you know me so well.” </p><p>The night was fine. There was a girl in a nice dress in front of him. And he was even wearing his lucky socks, the ones with the little Snitches on them. </p><p>“Could I tempt you,” he said as her chin quizzically tilted towards him, “to join me for some truant ice cream?” </p><hr/><p>Draco almost snorted ice cream out of his nose. </p><p>He’d have disliked this at the best of times, but when a girl whose figure was shown to fine effect was sitting opposite him, daintily licking – yes, licking, Merlin have mercy on his soul – whipped cream off her spoon, having chocolate ice cream shooting out of his nostrils was even more of an abominable concept than usual. </p><p>“What do you mean he ‘lost’ the groom?” </p><p>“I mean exactly that,” Hermione said, impishly grinning over her ice cream at him.</p><p>Impish suited her. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was because they were in Soho – suburb of sex and mischief – in an all-night Muggle ice cream parlour. Maybe it was the strawberry ice cream with extra whipped cream that she’d ordered, and was eating incredibly slowly. Apparently, Granger liked it sticky and melted.  </p><p>Someone up there was having a really good laugh at his expense. </p><p>“Forgive me,” he said, watching her dip her spoon into a scoop of strawberry, “but how does one misplace Harry Potter? I’ve been trying to do it for years.”</p><p> “Ron turned up on my front doorstep on the day of the wedding saying that he’d lost Harry to a goblin in a game of dominos.”</p><p>“Why did I never think of doing this to Blaise.” </p><p>She raised her spoon, sliding it into her mouth. Her lips parted with excruciating slowness as she ran the back of the spoon over her bottom lip, glazing her lip with a coating of cream. He watched as she touched her tongue to the spot, swiping it to catch the syrupy residue.</p><p> “Tell me,” he said, clearing his throat, “do you make a habit of swooping in and rescuing the men in your life?”</p><p>She looked up at him through her lashes, then her eyebrows furrowed contemplatively. “It does feel like it.”</p><p>“How did you get them to the church on time?”</p><p>“Once I calmed Ron down, he told me where he’d bet and lost Harry, and I went to find him.”</p><p>“Rescue him, you mean.”</p><p>She smiled again – it was almost a smirk – and Draco’s ice cream melted. </p><p>“He wasn’t being held captive. Much. He was barely bound. He seemed more vexed about the gag.”</p><p>He took a brief moment to savour the thought of Potter bound and gagged before realising that was far too kinky a way to be thinking about his sworn juvenile enemy, and quickly mentally backtracked to an appreciation of Granger. </p><p>“How does one out-smart a Goblin, Miss Granger?” he said, pitching his voice lower. </p><p>The colour crept into her cheeks as if stolen from her ice cream. “I challenged them to another game and bet in equal value to Harry.”</p><p>Draco’s eyebrows quivered. “What was of equal value to Potter?”</p><p>“I bet Ron. I was worried they might not take it, but turns out that by goblin standards Quidditch players actually have greater potential revenue than ‘former’ saviors of the wizarding world.”</p><p>His chortle sounded like a bark; it was so sudden. “You bet your ex-boyfriend against your best friend.”</p><p>“It was a calculated risk!”</p><p>“That is wicked.”</p><p>“I was almost certain I could win. My parents were somewhat addicted to dominos growing up, and the magical version isn’t so different to the Muggle.” She sat back. “Even if I’d lost, being a goblin prize would’ve been a better fate for Ron’s immediate future.”</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>She gave him a look. “Ginny would’ve murdered him for ruining her wedding.”</p><p>Draco laughed. “I really should not be surprised that your devious brain cooked up our current scheme.”</p><p>She sniffed. “You make me sound awful.”</p><p>“Granger, I can safely say that I have never been more impressed with you in all my life. I like your deviant side. It gets me into the most delicious scrapes.”</p><p>She narrowed her eyes at him. “You really seem shocked that I don’t lead an entirely boring life. You know, just because some of us actually work when we’re at work doesn’t mean our private life is just ”– she swirled the tip of her spoon in her strawberry ice cream –“vanilla.”</p><p>“Vanilla. That is a very interesting word choice for Soho.” </p><p>She shrugged a shoulder. “I’m eating truant ice cream here, it seemed an apt metaphor.” She brought the spoon to her lips again, and her throat bobbed as she swallowed another mouthful. </p><p>Draco’s own chocolate ice cream was melting into a heap of wet dreams and soft longings. </p><p>Maybe it was the late night setting. Maybe it was the fact that opposite him was a shop called ‘Young, Dom, and a Hole lot of Cum’. Maybe it was because Granger was licking strawberry ice cream off a spoon like it was a hot afternoon in July and not an almost freezing February evening. But she looked even more lovely haloed by the halogen lights of the parlor than she had in the huge stadium, lit by the soft golden glow of candles.</p><p>Her dusky curls scattered off in all directions, foiling his meticulously placed hairpins, and her mascara had smudged slightly, smoking around her lower lashes like the charcoaled fleak of an artist. </p><p> He could see her wrapped in silken sheets, her legs entwined with the silk like luscious vines, sun-kissed by a Tuscan summer, and her lips reddened by wine and… other reasons. </p><p>The mental image was so evocative, so intimate, and so strong that if he’d been standing, and not comfortably lounging in a booth with his nether regions conspicuously covered by the tabletop, then he could have been knocked down with a feather. Or, given the current location, a feather duster which could double as a handy dildo, retail price forty pounds but on special offer today with a twenty percent discount if one also purchased the accompanying maid outfit.  </p><p>Draco stabbed his spoon into his ice cream. It made a soft squelching sound which wasn’t helping anyone as it was resembling more cream and less ice by the second. He spun his spoon a bit, trying to stop himself from adding Granger and a maid outfit together in case of finding it equaled a premature ejaculation. </p><p>Even to his salubrious and ostentatious standards, he sounded as if he’d lost his mind somewhere between the moment he’d apparated into Granger’s bedroom and the moment that she closed her eyes when she first tasted her ice cream. </p><p>If he’d had a fork, he would have stabbed himself in the thigh.  </p><p>“Speaking of expectations,” Granger interrupted his stream of consciousness, “do you think we’ll need to — you know, take the next step to maintain our cover?”</p><p>She stared earnestly at him as she asked the question.  </p><p>Draco’s world ground to an immediate halt, only to be quickly restarted again, but at twice its normal pace. He stared at her, heart suddenly pounding, and mouth very, very dry. He couldn’t decide if he needed a tall glass of water, a martini, or a defibrillator. Save that, a swift kick to the head might do it. He felt he might think more clearly with a concussion. </p><p>“The –” and he couldn’t believe he was about to contemplate asking for clarification on this “– next step?”</p><p>She shifted, a flush rising to her cheeks as she avoided meeting his eyes. “Yes. I mean –” she sighed, straightening. She seemed determined and forthright, and he wondered if she always looked this way during a proposition. </p><p>“Obviously,” she said the word with far too much conviction; as if anything of the last week or so had been obvious, “we’re giving that impression already, but do you think we’ll need to actually do it? Should we – plan for that?”</p><p>He nearly snorted his ice cream for the second time that night. Water, champagne and now almost ice cream. His wardrobe was really going through the mill this evening. </p><p>She wanted to plan. Of course she wanted to plan. She was Hermione Granger and plans – and as it turned out deviant schemes – were her specialty.</p><p>“Well” – he coughed, yet his voice still hitched like a prepubescent boy’s – “if you’d like to.”</p><p>She stared at him. Her eyes narrowed in a very shrewd fashion, which would have had anyone else looking like they were doing an impression of a ferret which had a serious head-cold, but on her it was awfully adorable. </p><p>“I just feel,” she said, looking very pragmatic, “like there’s a point where it’s going to be unavoidable.” </p><p>His bow tie felt like a noose, and despite the ice cream, he felt a good ten degrees too warm. It was probably the start of his descent to one of the nine circles of hell. </p><p>He pulled at the tabs, loosening the tie until it hung around his neck like… well, a noose, but a loose noose. “You...you do?”</p><p>Had he really been that obvious? And why was he questioning this anyway? Why? Surely this would just be opportune time to go along with another one of Granger’s mad proposals. </p><p>She nodded. “I think we should talk about it first, just in case.”</p><p>“Yes,” he said, slowly, sensing some sort of trap even as she dipped and licked her spoon slowly. “That seems the mature thing to do.”</p><p>She relaxed slightly; there was a minimal drop in her shoulders, which he only noticed because he was suddenly for some inexplicable reason that currently escaped him, watching her movements like a hawk. </p><p>“If we’ve already gone over what we’re both comfortable with and how we want it, that’ll make things…” she rolled her spoon in the air, circling through the everlasting lines of the eternity symbol. “Better,” she said, ending on a flourish of her utensil. </p><p>“Better?”</p><p>“Yes,” she tilted her head as if he was the one who wasn’t making any sense. “Better, easier, effortless, unhurried, straightforward. Do you need more synonyms, Malfoy?”</p><p>The rain and flooding had to have somehow shrunk his tuxedo because it had never felt so uncomfortably tight in so many places at the same time. Usually it was just one place. </p><p>“No, no, I quite follow your meaning.”</p><p>Effortless. Unhurried. Straightforward. </p><p>Surely he hadn’t gotten hold of the wrong end of the wand. Not with words like that. If he had to imagine Granger’s dirty talk – and his ears were now burning with the idea of her voice in his ear – she would be articulate and grammatically correct in her sensual language. There would be paragraphs of description, advanced metaphors, and possibly secondary characters and a subplot.  </p><p>Hermione Granger would not be a monosyllabic girl.   </p><p>“It could be done a lot of different ways depending on exactly what the context is –”</p><p>Oh Merlin, help him. </p><p>“– we’ll have to think about who goes first.”</p><p>He didn’t hesitate. “You, naturally.”</p><p>She paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, and seemed to be contemplating it. “Alright. Do you prefer slower, or more aggressive?”</p><p>The only reason his jaw didn’t drop open was because he raised a hand to his mouth, pretending to rub his chin in a thoughtful, contemplative way as if he weren’t on the verge of cardiac arrest. “Why not both?”</p><p>Her eyebrows arched up and her eyes widened. “Good idea. We could start slowly and then get more aggressive.”</p><p>He wet his lips. “Exactly what I was thinking.”</p><p>“About how long should it last?”</p><p>Good god, she really did get right to the point. </p><p>He shifted, poking his melted ice cream in a bid for time. He didn’t want to undersell himself, however considering just how inevitable things were getting, he was somewhat concerned about just what kind of performance he might give. </p><p>“I am here for your use,” he said, evading the question but then he couldn’t help but add, “Generally I can last a few hours.”</p><p>She blinked and didn’t look nearly as impressed as he’d hoped instead just gazing contemplatively at her ice cream, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Right. If I’m initiating and we start slowly… it should be like we aren’t even intending to, we just — we can’t help ourselves. Then it can get more intense and heated –”</p><p>Gods forgive him; he had to ask. “And if I...initiate?” </p><p>“Well –” She glanced up at him, the tips of her ears turning pink. “Do you think we’d need to do it more than once?”</p><p>Draco’s throat thickened and he swallowed hard. “I can envision the occasion arising a few more times, yes.”</p><p>“Do you have any particular locations that stand out as obvious places?”</p><p>His bed, for one. Then hers. He hadn’t meant to notice, but it had been impossible not to observe the filigreed metal headboard with so much potential in it’s every curlicue. Now that he was thinking about it, he couldn’t help but think that at some point a library would be mandatory too, it seemed only natural given that it was Granger...</p><p>“What do you think of one of the main hallways on the third floor?” </p><p>Draco blinked away the gossamer fantasy involving Granger on a library ladder and stared blankly at her.</p><p>“I –” He went to loosen his bow-tie, until he realised it was already lying limply around his neck. “I don’t mean to be the one worrying about Ministry Regulations but I really feel Magical Resources might have something to say if we did that.” </p><p>She snorted. “I don’t see why they’d worry about that after everything we’ve already gotten away with.”</p><p>“Granger –” his voice threatened to crack “– a few moments on a desk and in a broom closet are – entirely different matters.” </p><p>She looked unconvinced but then suddenly brightened again. “Then what about the lift?”</p><p>“The lift?” He repeated. “The Ministry lift?”</p><p>“Is there a problem with that?”</p><p>“Well, I don’t – I am…” He found himself completely at a loss for words and gave her a lopsided smile. “You are just full of surprises.” </p><p>She stared at him, looking perplexed, apparently frustrated by his lack of enthusiasm. “Do you have a different location in mind?”</p><p>As she seemed to have an agenda – position, time and, presumably, location – in mind, he preferred to do the gentlemanly thing, and not object to anything the lady wished. He said something to that effect. </p><p>She was appeased by that careful evasion. “Well, we could plan for the lift on Monday morning then, on the way to the weekly meeting.”</p><p>Bugger. </p><p>Draco coughed. “I would not normally oppose anything you desired, however, I’m not certain how I feel performing in a lift for the first time. Lots of buttons. Lots of stops. It could get a little bumpy. I really wouldn’t do my best work.” </p><p>“It wouldn’t even need to take a minute.”</p><p>Draco’s brain, which had been coasting through the surreal possibilities involving slow and then aggressive screeched to an abrupt and insulting halt. </p><p>“A minute,” he echoed.  </p><p>“Is that too long for you? We could go quicker.”</p><p>She seemed to take his shocked silence as an affirmation to continue.  She chewed her lip thoughtfully, “We might only need to do it once if we time it right and a lot of people are watching.”</p><p>Draco made a small sound at the back of his throat, similar to that which a small chipmunk makes when trodden on by a caribou in the forest. </p><p>“Watching?” He bleated the word. </p><p>He felt a little faint. Thank golly gosh that he'd had some ice cream to perk his blood sugar up. </p><p>She nodded, looking completely matter-of-fact and chillingly unphased, forcibly reminding Draco that the woman before him had once ridden a dragon during a bank robbery, and maybe, after that sort of experience, exhibitionism might not be nearly as thrilling as it was for mere mortals. </p><p>She dragged her tongue across the back of her spoon as if it were a lolly.“I just think crowd size should probably be what determines how we go about it. If there’s a lot of people around the first time, we’ll probably only need to kiss once.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Never Kissed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Kiss,” Draco repeated. </p><p><em> A kiss.</em> She’d been talking about a kiss this whole time and not … </p><p>He wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or like he was six years old again, and at his distant cousin’s Hubert’s birthday party, where Hubert, in a fit of Black apathy, burst Draco’s balloon in the shape of a dragon, leaving Draco holding the punctured and deflated remains. </p><p>Two years later, in the Malfoy spirit of revenge, Draco locked Hubert in a Vanishing Cabinet. They eventually found Hubert again, but on the outskirts of Siberia. Draco to this day still wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about; Hubert was barely frozen, mild frostbite at best, and they managed to save the toe. </p><p>“A big crowd would make the most sense.” Hermione pushed her almost empty ice cream bowl away from her. She kept hold of the spoon however, raising it in the air like she was giving a class. “The more people would have the biggest social impact.”</p><p>“Bigger is better,” he found himself saying, more for something to contribute, staring stupidly at her as she hadn’t with one word shaken the axis of his universe. <em> Again. </em> </p><p>It had only been for a few minutes, but those few minutes of misunderstanding had left Draco with a certain realisation which he could no longer ignore: he was actually deeply attracted to Hermione Granger. </p><p> It was not just in the objective sense of being able to perceive her as an attractive person, but to such an extent that when he thought she wanted to have sex with him, he’d agreed without even speculating on refusing. Who could have predicted that?</p><p>Granger was technically attractive, but she wasn’t his ‘type’. </p><p>He didn’t have a ‘type’ in the conventional sense of preferring a particular bust size or specific hair or eye colour; it was more a ‘type’ of person he went for. The ‘type’ of person he tended to pursue, because at some point he would be expected to marry one of them. And Granger was not that ‘type’ in any way, shape, or form. She was… to put it in one word, <em> wholesome </em>. </p><p>Fake relationships and suggestive dalliances aside, Britain’s wealthiest and most eligible bachelor was not meant to be attracted to a wholesome woman with an actual job, or standards, or even morals. He was expected to stay within his own set. To find a nice girl – and he said the term ‘nice’ loosely, because one only had to look at his deceased aunt to understand how vague that description could be – and ideally a girl who was no more closely related than a second cousin. Again, and referencing his aunt a second time, this was also a debatable set of circumstances.   </p><p>It had been fine to regard Granger as objectively attractive. In the same way that he might regard a marble statue attractive: cold, aloof, unattainable, and certainly not something he’d be penetrating. </p><p>It was deucedly inconvenient to be attracted <em> to </em> her. </p><p>After the misunderstanding they’d just had, he felt he’d actually get further with the marble statue than her. That is, until security pulled him off and he’d be charged with public indecency. Museums could be so touchy about these things.  </p><p>Then why did he like her so much?</p><p>He had never been attracted to anyone the way that he was presently attracted to Granger. He was actually attracted to her as a person – what a sobering thought – in addition to wanting to get her out of her clothes. </p><p>Generally when he developed an interest in someone, he was instantly overcome with a deep-rooted desire, which probably originated from some childhood trauma – take a pick, there were so many – to self-sabotage. A desire to test the limits of what he could get away with; to flirt and cajole, and tease his intended target, and in doing so, measure out the exact extent of what he and his company were ‘worth’. </p><p>He was always interested to know just how much the promise of galleons would forgive mercurial behavior. Apparently, it was quite a lot. However, with Granger, he was instead overcome with the unexpected desire to impress her and never, ever find out what the limits of her tolerance might be. </p><p>Partly because he’d experienced those limits, and he’d ended up with a fat lip. </p><p>It was almost an instinctive knowledge, but he felt that the most interesting facets of her were subtle and unexpected. There were more of them than he had yet to glimpse and never would unless she chose to let him. </p><p>She was an acutely feminine – and by Merlin, just <em> how </em> feminine – shaped puzzle of lectures, workaholism, and do-gooding, paired with a brazen slyness which had her gambling her own boyfriend and faking a two week relationship just in order to change an inconvenient seating arrangement. </p><p>It was a strange cacophony of items which made her undeniably appealing, and yet… inconvenient. It would have been much simpler if he’d never come to the realisation at all, and instead had lived in a limbo of sexual confusion about strawberries. </p><p>It would have gone to her plan: they’d continue to fake date in the knowledge that their mutual animosity would keep them as mere co-conspirators, attend the wedding together, and then break up, with the clear and certain knowledge that they could slip back into their old routines as if nothing had happened. </p><p>But something <em> had </em> happened. </p><p>“Exactly,” Hermione was nodding vehemently in agreement about something. “So, with that concept in mind, maybe we should make it a ‘big’ kiss.” She frowned, seeming to dislike the phrasing of ‘big kiss’ in relation to him. “At least, make it look like a big gesture.”</p><p>Draco forced himself back into character – somehow certain that clueing her in to his current internal crisis would not go well – and raised a suggestive eyebrow. “Similar to our last big, public display of affection?” </p><p>He was relieved when her cheeks turned a tinge of pink as she spluttered over her answer, “Yes, but you took me by surprise that last time.”</p><p>“That was the point. You had been very wooden up till then. Just think of it as method acting.”</p><p>Her lips pursed. “Either way, I want to be prepared for our next ‘display of affection’. So are we agreed? The lift on Monday, there’s a pretty decent crowd at that time… so I’m sure we can sneak in a quick one and that will be that.” </p><p>She said it with as much verve as one might when scheduling a dental appointment, and not a snog with an attractive man with excellent hair and inheritance prospects.  </p><p>‘Hold on,” Draco’s hand shot up as if he were back in Hogwarts trying to argue with a professor. He caught himself and dropped it back under the table. “Considering –” His brain fully caught up and he paused, trying to think of what he wanted Granger to consider. He steepled his fingers. “Considering what we’ve done so far, I hardly think that a quick kiss like that would be sufficiently provocative.” </p><p>Granger’s eyes narrowed at ‘sufficiently provocative’. </p><p>“You’re the one,” she said, sufficiently skeptical, “who was worried about Magical Resources not wanting us ‘doing it’ in a hallway.”</p><p>
  <em> Doing it. </em>
</p><p><em> Merlin. </em>  </p><p>If he loosened his tuxedo any further, he’d basically be taking his clothes off. “Yes, well, the more I’ve thought about it, the more I think you’re right. We need to make a statement if we want to top what we’ve already done, and that it will require considerably more than a chaste peck on the cheek.”</p><p>“What do you suggest then?”</p><p>She looked curious, more than challenging, and her head tilted to the side. She seemed to be <em> studying </em> him. He’d seen how she was with books; she consumed them. She was giving him her entire focus, and he felt a pressure he hadn’t felt in years; he wanted to engage her.  </p><p>He swallowed. “If we consider the reaction we wish to elicit in our audience. We want to give them a kiss which will be seared into their memories.” He sought his brain, considering every romantic cliche in the book. “Something passionate, something breathless, something –”</p><p>Hermione cut in, apparently not to be outdone. “Toe-curling.”</p><p>Toe-curling. She wanted a toe-curling kiss. His mind was suddenly racing down a tract of all the ways he could make her toes curl. Very few of them ended with a kiss. </p><p>“I don’t feel a lift is going to provide a ‘toe-curling’ atmosphere.”</p><p>She sniffed, looked slightly peeved at having her idea dismissed. </p><p>“But we can adapt to any environment. For instance, if I was to kiss you here, hypothetically of course,” he slid their bowls to the side of the table, as if to prove his point, “I would lean across, get close to you, lock my eyes with yours.”</p><p>He did so; it was more instinctive than planned. He stared into her eyes, noticing the way they widened as he held her gaze. Her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t look away. </p><p>“Then,” he said with deliberate slowness, “I would let my eyes trail downwards, until I reached your mouth.”</p><p>Her lips were parted ever so slightly, but enough for him to imagine her opening her mouth further and pressing his teeth into the plump centre of her bottom lip. He could practically feel the sensation of her breath on his face; a cool fanning which made his lips tingle. </p><p>“So that I wouldn’t be caught off-guard?” Her voice seemed shaky, as if she’d climbed a flight of stairs too quickly and needed to catch her breath.</p><p>“No,” he said, still speaking slowly and studying her mouth. “I’m not looking at you to prepare you, I’m looking at you so you know what I’m thinking. So you know I am already imagining all the ways I want to kiss you before I even have.”</p><p>His eyes flicked up to meet hers again, and he found that they’d somehow managed to get even bigger and Draco felt that if he leaned forward a little more, looked a little deeper, he might be able to see right into that fantastically unpredictable maze of a mind that she kept hidden behind piercing glares and profuse blushes. </p><p>However, now was hardly the time.</p><p>“We need the atmosphere to have atmosphere. People need to notice and then feel the sparks between us. You have to warm up to these things, Granger. Passion is hot, sizzling; not some lukewarm reheat. Especially”– he grinned –“if we’re doing this at lunch. I have no desire to have our kiss compared to the temperate standards of the Ministry’s lasagna.”</p><p>She gave a little snort, the corner of her mouth turned up. The air seemed a little less heavy between them. It was time to change that. </p><p>“Now,” he said, eyes moving from her lips to trace along her jawline. “Where were we?”</p><p>“Um…” Her tongue darted out nervously. “You were staring at me so I’d know all the ways you — wanted to kiss me.” She was beginning to blush pink around the edges like a scented, blooming rose. </p><p>“Oh yes,” he lowered his voice, “I remember now. A kiss is about mutualism; it’s an invitation. I’d see what you were doing. Are you also looking at my lips? Are your eyes flicking down? Are you angling your chin to the side?”</p><p>She angled her chin to the side. </p><p>“Indicating that you are following and reciprocating what I’m obviously thinking about. Once I was sure I had your full attention, I’d slide my mouth over yours, pressing lightly.”</p><p>He paused.</p><p>“And then what?” she said after several seconds. </p><p>“I’m waiting for you to kiss me back.”</p><p>This news seemed to surprise her. </p><p>He gave her a look. “I want you to kiss me. It’s a mutual affair, as I said. There’s no pleasure in kissing someone who doesn’t want you.” He laid his hands on the table, palms down. “Now, answer the question: would you kiss back?”</p><p>She gulped, staring at him, her eyes as wide as soup plates. Good lord, how large did this woman’s eyes get? </p><p>When she failed to answer, he caught himself. “In this hypothetical situation of ours,” he added in when he realised that she was apparently frozen. “In the context of this entirely fictitious situation.”</p><p>She gave a visible sigh of relief. “Yes… if I knew the person wanted me to, that they’d – missed me, even though we were only apart for a little while or –” she tilted her head and stared into space “– because I’d said something and it made them fall in love with me a little more…” </p><p>Her eyes seemed to be getting very far away as she contemplated this imaginary scenario, and as charming as it was to get such an unexpected glimpse into her romantic ideals, not to mention useful to file away for future reference, Draco preferred to be much more personally involved in it. Which was possibly devious of him, but it wasn’t every day that a man ran away from his own ball in order to eat ice cream and discuss hypothetical kissing scenarios.</p><p>“How?” he said, innocently. </p><p>She blinked and seemed to remember that she was supposed to be talking about kissing <em> him </em> for scheming purposes. She studied him, calculating. </p><p>“I’d – I’d meet your lips, and maybe nudge our noses together as I reached out and –” her eyes scanned over him from his hair down over his shoulders to his chest “– rest my hand on your collar with my fingertips barely brushing against your neck so I could urge you closer.”</p><p>“I would place my hand over yours, slightly pulling you off balance,” he idly touched a hand to his open collar. “Kissing you again as you push closer to me.” </p><p>She inhaled, bosom rising and chin tilting up. “And I’d open my mouth a little, so that you could deepen the kiss, if you wanted to.”</p><p>“I want to.”</p><p>Just <em> how </em> he wanted to. </p><p>Just how he wanted to shove the remnants of their ice cream, that he’d watched her eat so patiently, away and cover the space between them. Entwining his fingers in her hair, brushing his nose just under her ear, below her jaw, pressing fevered kisses to her neck. </p><p>To feel her tremble under his touch, and gasp as he nipped at her skin. Coaxing a sigh from her as he’d run his lips up her neck, sucking lightly at her jawline. </p><p>“I’d slip my hand up your neck to the nape, and then run my fingers through your hair, to hold on,” she was saying.</p><p>“Mhmm,” Draco managed to say in agreement. His hand would lightly pull at the roots of her hair, while the other trailed down her body, grasping her waist and tugging her closer. </p><p>She’d slide onto the table, her arse perching on the ledge as he bent his head and lowered his mouth to hers once more. But this time he’d be hungry, more fevered, devouring her as a man starved. Swallowing her kisses and the soft moans that she would be making as if he’d never tasted anything as good as her lips.</p><p>He’d feel her knees part, and press his body between hers. His hand sweeping down her back. </p><p><em> Oh by Merlin </em>, he wanted to cup her backside and squeeze her. Unfasten the buttons at her neck so that he could kiss the dip of her throat and then sweep her away to the manor where he could strip her of her dress, and drink in her soft sighs and… </p><p>“– it tangles easily.” Granger’s pragmatic albeit somewhat breathless voice interrupted his fantasy.</p><p>“Er,” he scrambled to recall what she might have said. “Alright.”</p><p>He shifted in his seat in the booth, the situation within his trousers was presently so unpleasantly tight that he was feeling sorely in need of an undetectable expansion charm down there. </p><p>Granger’s cheeks had a low flush to them. “Are you alright if I muss your hair up a bit? Running my nails through and maybe a bit of pulling?” </p><p>Draco bit down on the inside of his cheek to avoid groaning at the thought. He wanted to think about it further, in greater detail, but later. Maybe tonight, when he was tucked up in bed utterly and completely alone. </p><p>“Of course.” </p><p>“Harder tugging or just light?”</p><p>“Whatever…” he managed to say, “whatever seems natural in the moment.” His plans for later that evening were set in stone. Practically granite. He swallowed. “It’s vital that we keep this as authentic as possible.”</p><p><em> Maybe, we should actually start having marathon shag sessions on your desk </em> , he continued to her in his mind, <em> you know, just for the sake of ‘authenticity’ </em>. </p>
<hr/><p>“Anyway,” Draco shook his head sharply and cleared his throat, “that’s just one of <em> many </em>possible scenarios.”</p><p>Hermione nodded in rapid agreement, feeling that the conversation desperately needed to stop. Stop when she was only imagining her fingers buried in Malfoy’s hair, before her hands began mentally wandering across the broad span of his shoulders and down his back, her fingertips tracing the contour of every muscle as she went. Even though the thought of doing so was <em> almost </em> enough to make her thankful for Quidditch. </p><p>She was already thinking much too much about the softness of his hair under her hands, and the way his voice vibrated when he groaned. She crossed her legs in an effort to keep from squirming, pressing her thighs together as heat surged through her. It was like she’d just swallowed a shot of firewhiskey; warmth ran down her body like liquid fire. </p><p>“Right.” Her voice wobbled a bit, and she looked down and drew a deep calming, soothing, steadying, relaxing breath. It didn’t do nearly enough of any of those things. “Well, as you said,” she ran her hands across the tabletop in the hope that the cool metal would help, “we can adapt to the atmosphere, and really what we’ve gone over could conceivably work anywhere.” </p><p>He also nodded in what she assumed was agreement, although he looked a little fuzzy, even dizzy. She’d seen similar expressions on Ron and Harry when they’d had a bludger to the head. Right now his grey eyes were so dark they were nearly black. Dilated pupils; a classic sign of a head injury. She looked at him worriedly. Could she find a way to check his pulse to see if it was rapid? Maybe he’d hit his head at some point that evening. It might account for some of his strange behavior. She corrected herself: more than <em> usual </em> strange behavior. </p><p>He’d undone his bowtie earlier and unfasted the top buttons on his shirt, so that when he swallowed again, Hermione could see the tendons stand out all the way down to the base of his throat. </p><p>Her mouth went dry. She averted her eyes. </p><p>“That is, if it <em> does </em>become necessary for us to kiss,” she added quickly, very much regretting that she’d brought up the subject at all. </p><p>She’d thought that discussing the matter of kissing beforehand would prepare her so that she wouldn’t be as blindsided as she’d been when he’d taken her glove off, instead she now felt even less prepared to kiss Malfoy. In fact, as she was thinking about it further, she felt quite strongly that under no circumstances should kisses involving herself and him ever be permitted to occur. She feared that it would do irrevocable harm. Exactly what type of harm, she wasn’t prepared to contemplate just then, but intuitively she could sense that kissing Draco Malfoy would be a door that once opened would not be easily closed. Kissing him in the way that he wanted them to kiss would interfere with her ability to see him solely as a snake with legs – not that she spent time thinking about Malfoy’s snake, or legs, or anatomy in general. She didn’t. Wouldn’t.</p><p>“We may not actually need to.” She swallowed, her mouth still oppressively dry. “It’s going fine as is, so we probably won’t.”</p><p>He was staring at her. He’d been staring at her a lot this evening. During the ball, it had seemed as if he was always in the corner of her eye, she’d turn her head and there’d be Malfoy. Always with an expression that was a bewildering mix of intense concentration and utter distraction. It had been creeping across his face like the slow rise of the sun; as if he saw her and heard her, but couldn’t quite comprehend her. </p><p>Not that she’d been keeping an eye on him at the ball. Of course not. It was just that he was constantly there in her peripherals, so that she couldn’t help but notice everything and everyone he’d interacted with during the course of the event. Or even the amount of times he’d gone to the bathroom, which were plenty. He seemed to always have been dashing off, a napkin to his chest, looking more than uncomfortable. Could he possibly have some sort of medical condition? Could that in part explain some of his behavior? </p><p>Or maybe he was getting distracted because he was so concerned about the ball. Although the idea that Draco would ever allow himself to be troubled with something as trivial as work seemed doubtful, the man had spent more time arguing with himself over the choice between mint chocolate and pistachio ice cream than he had taken to decide where to place an international acrobatic troupe. However, regardless of how seriously he viewed it, the last thing Hermione needed was to sabotage someone’s career over a fake relationship, even if that person was Malfoy and the ‘career’ was in Magical Sports.</p><p>The responsible thing to do would be insist that they return. Not that <em> she </em> wanted to return to the ball, it had been a relief to have a break from their performance, but if she was his real girlfriend she’d probably try to take his job seriously.</p><p>“Should we –?” she nodded her chin towards the door “– isn’t it about time that we headed back?”</p><p>“What?” He stared at her uncomprehending. “Where?”</p><p>She looked at him, trying to gauge if he was being stupid or merely pretending to be stupid, it was sometimes very difficult to tell with Malfoy.  “Your ball? You must want to go back? We’ve been truant for nearly an hour.”</p><p>“Oh...” was all he said, his tone dismissive. “<em> That </em>.” </p><p>He sat back in the booth, apparently disinclined to move and unconcerned with his event coordinating responsibilities. “It’s fine. It’s not really my ball anyway.” He waved a long-fingered hand in a vague gesture. “It’s Magical Sports’ event. I’m hardly more than a lackey.”</p><p>Hermione pursed her lips, glancing towards the door again and really feeling like she could use the cold air and a brisk walk to direct her energy. She curled her toes tightly inside her shoes, trying to find somewhere to divert her newfound sense of tension and restlessness.</p><p> “You said earlier, when you apparated into my bedroom, that –” </p><p>“I was in a state of crisis at the time,” he cut in with frustrating smoothness.  </p><p>She started to retort but he continued, “And I had <em> as good as </em> drowned. To be frank, I feel there is a high likelihood that I was suffering from shock. I may be scarred for some time. My life flashed before my eyes as the torrent of water fell from the heavens to break its chilly waves upon my head.” </p><p>He gave her a sidelong glance through his lashes as though checking for her reaction. Then he leaned towards her. “As it may be, because of that, I really cannot be held accountable in any way whatsoever for any claims I might have made at the beginning of this evening. Except that you look devastating in navy. That observation was my singular moment of lucidity.”</p><p>Hermione wasn’t sure whether to laugh or have him committed. </p><p>She wondered sometimes how he even qualified as a functioning human. Malfoy, who was drawn to the flashy glare of attention and scandal with the devotion of a niffler, wanted to stay truant in an ice cream shop. She was certain it was some type of danger sign, some warning that she should recognize, but unfortunately he managed to behave so incomprehensibly that she had no idea what kind of danger sign it was. </p><p>He sat opposite her, his head propped on the faux leather of the booth, surveying her under half-lidded eyes, the echo of a smirk around his lips. He shrugged, and the material of his jacket bunched up… distractingly. It looked like it had been molded to his shoulders, it hugged the breadth of them so well, and clung to the muscles of his upper arm in a way which made her want to bury her fingernails into them until she left little crescent marks in his skin. Then, as if he’d noticed her looking, he lifted his arm, and his muscles tensed and flexed under the midnight black of the sleeve. </p><p>She tore her eyes away and her gaze alighted on his hand. His fingers were idly, almost insolently, fiddling with the next button on his already rather indecently unbuttoned shirt. It was as if with every touch, he was deliberating on taking it off. The collar was so crisp and white that she felt like if she reached out and ran her thumb along the edge of it, she’d come away with a paper cut. </p><p>Her eyes flitted downwards, tracing along the deep v of the shirt, following the pale slash of skin until she reached the buttons, noting the slight strain on them, fabric across his chest pulling tight as he reached up and ran a hand through his hair. Raking back the errant strands with a practiced flick of his wrist. </p><p>She looked down at her lap in order to avoid looking at him at all.</p><p>The paradox of Hermione wanting to go back to a ball and Draco wanting to skive off defied some sort of natural law. She glanced back at him in order to say as much, but before she could speak he seemed to notice her skepticism and drew himself up, straightening in a sober fashion. </p><p>“It is not often,” he said in a grave voice, “that a man is nearly drowned when preparing for a ball. Hermione, in all seriousness, I am astonished I lasted as long as I did. I do entirely fear,” he ran a hand through his hair again, causing the buttons on his shirt to pull once more, “that I may be suffering from unprocessed trauma. If we go back, and I have to walk into that stadium, you could be damning me to months spent on a professional coach and possibly a lifetime phobia to swimming pools.”</p><p>He tilted his head downward, expression demure. “I probably shouldn’t expose myself to stadiums again until I’ve seen a therapist about it all,” he said. “Or at least had a good night’s sleep. Why do you think we’re here eating ice cream? It’s to console me from my trauma.”</p><p>“Your trauma?” she echoed incredulously.</p><p>He laid a hand earnestly against his chest, continuing as if she hadn’t just interrupted him. “That’s why I need you here with me. I need to be monitored, to ensure that I don’t go into shock or have a mental breakdown.”</p><p>“Aren’t you worried that you could get fired for disappearing?” She studied him suspiciously. </p><p>Draco snorted, straightening his cuffs and looking pretentious again. “They’d never fire me, I’m much too important.”</p><p>Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were a lackey.” </p><p>A guilty smile ghosted across his features for a split-second before his expression was schooled back into one of wide-eyed earnestness. “Ah, well. I am currently suffering from job-related trauma. If I was forced to return, I would probably need to file a human rights violation. Just think of the lawsuit and the scandal. It could result in premature scrutiny on our relationship.”</p><p>Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’m assuming this makes sense in your world.”</p><p>“Excellent,” Draco said, looking cheerful and entirely trauma-free. Then he sat back again, eyeing her in a way that was completely inscrutable.</p><p>His darkening gaze flicked down, alighting on her mouth for such a brief instant that she could have sworn it hadn’t happened, but as he did, his teeth bit into his lower lip, slowly compressing his bottom lip under the pressure. As if he wanted to nip at her. </p><p>A horrible and intoxicatingly familiar warmth rushed through her. It was ridiculous being so warm when she’d just eaten <em> ice cream </em> in February. She shouldn’t be flushing under the high collar of her dress. Thank gracious for its high collar; Draco might see her blushes otherwise, and she didn’t feel she could bear Draco Malfoy of all people knowing what shade of pink her skin went. Just thinking about it made her ears warm.</p><p>His eyes narrowed, causing his eyebrows to crease. </p><p>“Granger,” he said at last, “why have you been single all these years?”</p><p>Oh goodness gracious – of all the conversations he could have decided to have, when things had actually been going fairly well between them, <em> that </em> was the one he’d landed on. Her stomach sank. No matter how many years passed, or how many times she was asked, the question never failed to make her immediately bristle inside.</p><p>Her jaw grew tense and she straightened, lips pursing in visible disapproval so that he would be able to tell just how annoyed he’d managed to make her. “I’ve told you, I’m very happy single.”</p><p>“Yes. You’ve mentioned your ‘happiness’. In fact,” he leaned forward, index finger extended pointedly towards her, “every time your single status comes up, the first words out of your mouth are about how ‘happy’ you are.”</p><p>“Well,” she shifted awkwardly in the slippery booth, “I am happy. Lots of people assume that the natural state of singleness is unhappiness, so it seems logical to establish right off that I’m not.”</p><p>“Right…” he said slowly, dropping his hand down to the table. “You are aware that happiness and a person’s relationship status are not mutually exclusive one way or the other –”</p><p>“Obviously.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’m not saying –”</p><p>“Therefore,” he cut her off with an easy grin, “returning to my original question, <em> why </em> have you been single all these years?”</p><p>“I –”</p><p>“And don’t try to sidestep the question again with diatribes about your emotional state.” He laced his fingers together and rested his chin atop them, looking up at her. </p><p>“I remember when things ended with you and Weasley. Admittedly I was in –” he furrowed his eyebrows, “Barcelona? Lovely architecture, by the way. You should go. But I did see the coverage in the papers. You both tried to pass it off as an ‘amicable parting of ways’, ‘we just drifted apart’, or my personal favourite ‘we’re still very good friends’. However, of the two, Weasley was clearly the broken-hearted one. You didn’t jilt him for anyone else, so…six years not a man to be seen until –” he dipped his head slightly to signal himself. “Why not? As your co-conspirator, I feel I must know.”</p><p>Somehow Hermione felt sure that the vague explanations that she usually gave about ‘work’ and ‘not really feeling the need’ weren’t going to cut it with Draco. When Molly or most anyone else asked, it wasn’t because they actually wanted to know why, they simply wanted to solve the problem of Hermione’s singleness. Draco seemed to actually want to know why, and while Hermione usually liked explaining things to people, this particular subject happened to be the exception to that rule. </p><p>“I don’t think I’m suited for relationships,” she said after a moment’s pause. </p><p>“Yes, well isn’t that the point of getting in and out of them? Trying them out until you find the person that suits?” </p><p>“Is that what you’re doing?”</p><p>“Yes,” he said as if it were obvious. </p><p>Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You’re looking for a long-term relationship?”</p><p>She tilted her head to the side, looking him over. Somehow over the course of their conversation in the ice-cream shop, his tuxedo jacket had come off, his cuffs unfastened, his bowtie untied, and buttons on his shirt were undone. He’d somehow made shedding his clothes while conversing in an ice cream shop seem entirely natural. She could see why women got into relationships with him. His familiarity and sensuality never seemed forced; it melded so effortlessly with his easy charm that it felt as if it had to be sincere. A truly effortless sense of intimacy. </p><p>He gave a tight-lipped laugh. “Well, you know, certain universally acknowledged truths and all that.” He gestured languidly down at himself. “Single man. Good fortune. I’m obviously in need of a wife. That is a non-negotiable point when you are the heir of a family as old and as profitable as mine. My mother is very adamant on the subject. I have to get married, no two ways about it. Therefore, I’m trying to find <em> The One. </em>” </p><p>“<em> The One </em>?” she echoed, also adding the italics.  </p><p>“You know,” he swished his finger like an orchestra conductor, “that person who makes you finally understand what all the songs and poems really mean. Where you look at them and you notice the birds singing, the blossom on the trees, and all the stars in the sky.”</p><p>“You –” she tried to conceal the incredulity in her voice at the idea that Draco, who had just gone into libidinous detail about how to fake passion when kissing to a degree that made it clear that the knowledge came from extensive personal experience, was secretly harboring romantic notions. “Malfoy, are you sitting here claiming that you’re trying to find <em> The One </em>?”</p><p>He stared at her, eyebrows shooting up. “Is this news?”</p><p>Considering that the dictionary definition of ‘philanderer,’ could just say ‘See: Draco Malfoy,’ yes, yes it was. </p><p>“I assumed you were more of a skeptic than that,” she said evasively, “given the number of comments you make about gold-diggers.” She furrowed her eyebrows. “You actually have feelings for the women you date?”</p><p>He stared at her, looking visibly offended. </p><p>“I just –” she spluttered, “It sometimes sounds like a flavor of the week.”</p><p>“Yes, well,” his voice was tense, “the Social Snitcher is not exactly an empirical source of information on me or anyone for that matter.”</p><p>He gave her a pointed look as if to remind her of all the spinster comments the news rag had directed towards her. </p><p>“No,” she said a little mollified, “of course not.” </p><p>She glanced at him, reconsidering her previous assumption; perhaps romanticism was why he was so successful in all his womanizing. He wasn’t the insincere person she’d thought. Not everything was a lie. The interest and the compliments he offered were sincere for the five minutes that his attention span lasted. Before he moved on; like a butterfly that fell in love with every flower... before flitting to the next. </p><p>In a way, that felt worse than believing that all his charm was a performance. </p><p>“Anyway…” he still looked a bit miffed. “Coming back to you. You’re hardly lacking options if you wanted them. <em> Why </em> are you single?”</p><p>She drew a deep breath, unable to keep her jaw from going tense again and her chest tightened. She opened her mouth several times. </p><p>“It’s not really about finding the relationship that works for me,” she finally said, settling on an answer that was honest enough that he would hopefully drop the subject. “I don’t — I don’t like who I am when I’m in a relationship. I’m not very good with boundaries, I’m all or nothing and,” she swallowed, heartbeat quickening as she looked away, “with dating, that doesn’t go very well for me.”</p><p>Just thinking about it made her feel hollow inside. She looked down at her lap, staring at the deep blue fabric of her dress.</p><p>“With Weasley,” he inserted as if it were a vital detail.</p><p>She glanced up and found that he was staring at her again with that same odd look he’d had while fixing her hair. </p><p>She managed to force an awkward smile and shook her head. “Not just him. Relationships in general just don’t really work for me.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments and kudos are love.</p>
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